


Corruption

by fizzfooz



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dark, Evil Inquisitor, Evil Lavellan, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexualised Cole, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzfooz/pseuds/fizzfooz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evil Lavellan brutalises the inner circle.</p><p>Warnings for: graphic rape, noncon, violence, grooming, lots of bad stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bound, Bowed, Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains graphic rape and violence and is very dark in tone. Please don't read it if any of these things are triggering for you.

Lavellan wondered if he'd ever sleep again. Every time he succumbed to the burning itch behind his eyes, he lurched awake seconds later, worse off than if he'd never drifted off at all, He lay panting in his soaked sheets. Visions of Iron Bull frothing at the mouth, so far gone into his rage that he was incapable of speech. Swinging that huge two-handed axe into the back of Lavellan's skull. Sera seeing him as too big to be useful. An arrow in his throat that came too quickly to feel. Dorian defecting to the Venatori. Mages tearing down Skyhold like they'd demolished a Qunari dreadnaught. Vivienne allying with a pride demon to consolidate her power. The abomination sitting on Lavellan's throne.

In his waking hours, Lavellan knew it was paranoia borne of seeing tiny tombstones in the Fade. If the nightmare demon had so cared to, he could have replaced every one with the word 'failure'. It must have known how easily Lavellan could be buried beneath it.

Lavellan had let Solas and Varric bicker over what was best for Cole, while the dread settled like a bezoar in his gut. More human or more spirit-like, Cole was a risk. The amulet Josephine tracked down offered little reassurance. It could malfunction. It could, as Varric said, prove ineffective because Cole was just human enough to trick the magic. Lavellan let Varric take care of it. More human seemed less risky.

But he dreamed of despair. Of Cole's skin peeling back, twisted jaw bone underneath. Of biting cold, Lavellan's hands frozen to the throne where he sat in judgement, and all of Skyhold entombed in ice. They hadn't treated Cole like what he was. They'd pampered and babied him and gotten too attached. By the time they'd steeled themselves to put him down, it would be too late.

Solas had been so against the binding ritual but he didn't understand how much was at stake. It only had to be temporary. Just until Corypheus was defeated. It wasn't difficult to find the spell. Surely if the magic was so terrible, it would be more well-hidden. One spell. One nick in the soft skin of Lavellan's inner wrist. It was a small price to pay to never have to fear Cole. Or fear for him.

***

It didn't stop the dreams. Another wretched sleepless night and Lavellan fled to the tavern to find a more pleasant diversion. Bull was busy with a tavern wench, and no one else caught Lavellan's fancy. How could they? Lavellan spent all day with beautiful people. Some bar steward was hardly adequate. He didn't know how Iron Bull could bear to be with people who were so painfully ordinary. Lavellan went to the library instead.

Dorian was still awake, reading by candlelight. Lavellan leaned against the book shelf by Dorian's chair. Dorian was as handsome as he often claimed, especially in candlelight. The buckles all over his clothes would be a lot of work for the quick release Lavellan sought, but Dorian didn't have any buckles over his mouth...

“You're in my light,” Dorian said.

Lavellan drew closer, so his shadow made the book unreadable. Dorian pored over the book for a few moments then slammed it shut. He picked up the candle and went to examine the shelf furthest from Lavellan, running his fingers along the books' spines. Lavellan followed and blew out the candle.

“Is there something you want, Inquisitor?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan slid closer to Dorian. He regretted blowing out the candle. What use was Dorian if he couldn't be looked at? “I can think of a more interesting diversion than reading,” Lavellan said.

“I sincerely doubt that,” said Dorian. He made a show of selecting books, and returning them to the shelves. It was idiocy like this that made Lavellan certain his nightmares about Dorian defecting were just that. Indeed, it was hard to imagine Dorian posing any threat at all. The man was decorative, but ultimately feckless. A smoke bomb of bluster, hiding the weakness at his core. Craving affection from Halward Pavus like a babe looking for suckling.

Lavellan pressed into Dorian's back. If Lavellan were a human, or a Qunari, he'd have used his superior strength and weight to pin him there. Instead, he placed a hand on Dorian's hip and stood on his tiptoes to speak into the shell of Dorian's ear.

“I thought you'd like to join me in my quarters.”

Dorian shuddered. “You are mistaken.”

Lavellan touched his lips to the join of Dorian's neck and shoulder. Whatever he'd anointed his skin with had a hint of jasmine and myrrh. Dorian's whole body stiffened, tension rippling through it from the point where Lavellan's lips met it. “Come now, Dorian. I've seen the way you look at me. And I know you like men.”

“Men in general, yes,” Dorian said. His voice was mocking. Patronising. Like he was talking to an imbecile. More bluster. Dorian's heart must be racing, Lavellan could feel his pulse thrumming under his lips. “Specific men, specifically you, no.” Dorian peeled Lavellan's hand away from his hip. He turned to face Lavellan, and crossed his arms over his chest, standing tall. Using every inch of human height to look down his nose at Lavellan. “I'm a man of refined tastes and exacting standards. Why would I lower those standards to bed you?”

_Lower his standards._ “I'm the Herald of Andraste and head of the Inquisition.”

“So you keep reminding me. Since this somehow seems to have escaped your almighty notice, let me make it clear: I am not interested in the Herald of Andraste. I am not interested in the Inquisitor. I am not interested in you. Touch me so intimately again, and you won't find me nearly so understanding.”

Lavellan reminded himself that Dorian's knowledge benefited the Inquisition, and bloodying up his pretty face might strain their relationship further. Lavellan sneered. Dorian had no idea. Dismissing him so casually. Lavellan could open a rift inside his body and have him torn open from the inside out. Or burn his face so badly the healers couldn't repair it. See how exacting his standards were then.

“Bull's already staked his claim then,” Lavellan said.

“Tell yourself whatever story you like so it doesn't sting so much, oh Herald and Inquisitor.”

Dorian snatched his book from the floor and swept away. Melodramatic, even when he was fleeing.

Lavellan ground his teeth, a habit his Keeper used to scold him for. If Dorian wanted to pretend to himself that he was too good for Lavellan, that was fine. There were plenty of other fish in the sea as the blasted humans liked to say.

***

Or not. The following day, the librarian fled from him with a squeak. The stable boys ran off whenever he drew near them. Blackwall spent a full ten minutes talking to him about how much he liked women and their various parts. Solas told him a rather lengthy and obscure tale about prudence. Then there was Iron Bull, who gave him a very concentrated stinkeye.

Dorian had a big mouth. As if he hadn't already done enough. Lavellan had went to bed alone and so frustrated even his hand hadn't been able to sate him. Then the dreams had woken him, leaving him to nurse that frustration all night. Damn it all. Maybe he could get Josephine to make some discreet arrangements. Orlais was bound to have a fine selection of brothels--

In his idle wandering, Lavellan had managed to scatter a dozen chickens. They bleated and flapped around him, covering him in tiny feathers. Disgusting things. Lavellan could barely tolerate them roasted, but humans insisted on keeping them around for their eggs. A vile practise. They needed useful animals, like halla. Lavellan lifted his foot to show one of the chickens exactly what he thought of it, and found his ankle held in place.

“Don't hurt them,” Cole said.

Lavellan jerked his foot out of Cole's grip. Cole had apparently been sitting among the chickens. He had a bag of grain in his lap. No wonder their were so many chickens getting underfoot. Lavellan touched his wrist, remembering the scar. He hadn't seen Cole since he'd let Varric convince him to make him more human. Since the spell when Lavellan had decided that wasn't enough. Cole looked less peaky than the last time Lavellan had really looked at him. Perhaps he'd been introduced to the pleasures of eating, drinking, and sleeping.

Cole tossed more grain and smiled softly. “They like the food but sometimes they forget they're not hungry,” he said. He tossed another handful. That attracted yet more chickens.

“Will you stop feeding these disgusting creatures?” Lavellan snapped.

Cole upended the bag of grain in his eagerness to stand up. Its contents showered him from head to toe. Cole's eyes widened. The motion had looked sudden and reflexive. A more human response to being given an order by a surperior, or...?

“Come here, Cole.”

Cole jumped toward him as if his feet were on a spring. “I'm--” Cole stared at him, a wondering expression overtaking his face. He looked pitiful in his ragged clothes, grain all down his front. “You bound me.”

“I had to be sure Corypheus couldn't turn you against me.”

Cole smiled, sudden and bright. A little goofy too, with his funny teeth. “Thank you. I wanted to be stopped if I hurt people, but it's better that I can't.”

Lavellan considered him, so beaming and grateful. At least one of his companions appreciated all he did for them. “Come on, Cole. Let's get you cleaned up.”

***

Lavellan sat Cole on the edge of his bed and helped him undress. Cole removed his hat but held on to the brim of it, as if afraid Lavellan might take it away.

When Lavellan helped Cole remove his jacket he detected a familiar scent. The trace of jasmine and myrrh he'd smelled on Dorian. Perhaps Vivienne's rather pointed comments about bathing had hit their mark. Or perhaps Dorian had taken matters into his own hands. The others were certainly more willing to tolerate Cole when he didn't smell of weeks-old sweat and dried blood. The idea of Dorian helping Cole in that manner certainly had some appeal...

“Did Dorian bathe you?”

“Yes,” Cole said, watching curiously as Lavellan undid the various ties and catches on his clothes. “He said I was hurting his olfactory organs and something had to be done. He gave me a little bottle and told me to put the cream on my skin. He gave Blackwall lots of little bottles. Blackwall lost them all. He wasn't happy when I found them for him.”

Lavellan moved on to the second layer of garments. Creators, why did everyone he knew wear so many damn buckles?

“Did you see him naked?”

Cole blinked. “Yes,” he said, matter-of-factly. As if watching a beautiful man bathing held no more interest for him than the sand in the Hissing Wastes. “We bathed together.”

“Good view?” Lavellan tried. The only things he'd known Cole to get enthusiastic about were helping people and hats, but there had to be more, didn't there? Especially in the body of such a young man.

“Good view of what?”

Lavellan snorted. He finally got Cole out of his shirt. Cole was broader than he expected. Cole had that awkward, hunched way of standing that made him look smaller and skinnier than he really was. Rangy, but nicely-defined muscles. All that running around and fighting had obviously done him good. His ribs still showed but he wasn't the skeletal waif Lavellan had expected. He had hair too, in that curious way of humans. Pale blond motes on the backs of his arms, and thicker hair peeking over the waistband of his trousers. He was still too pale by far, but he looked healthy at least.

Perhaps better than healthy. Lavellan tried to ignore the too big and too blue eyes on him as he moved on to the ties of Cole's trousers. With encouragement, Cole wriggled out of them. He had more fair hair on his legs. Lavellan ran his thumb over the inside his thigh, on the pretence of removing a speck of grain. Cole squirmed.

“Ticklish?” Lavellan said, grinning up at him.

Anyone else might have commented on the provocative position. Lavellan knelt between Cole's spread legs with his trousers in his hand. Cole just stared blankly, still gripping onto that damn ugly hat. Lavellan reached for the waistband of Cole's underthings.

“They aren't dirty,” Cole said.

“The servants might as well wash them with everything else.” It was just curiosity, Lavellan told himself. Nothing sinister. Who wouldn't want to know how anatomically correct Cole's body was? A spirit couldn't know that much, could it?

After a moment's hesitation, Cole straightened his legs and allowed Lavellan to shimmy his underthings off. He made no attempt to cover himself. Apparently modesty was another concept spirits didn't understand. And Cole was anatomically correct. Very anatomically correct.

“Have you ever been kissed, Cole?”

“Yes,” Cole said, as Lavellan's eyebrows shot up. “Evangeline kissed me on the forehead.”

Lavellan laughed. Of course. “You're cute, Cole.”

“I'm cute.”

“Very cute.” Lavellan got off his knees to join Cole on the bed. “Give me a hug.”

Cole was compelled to, of course. He leapt forward, and tackled Lavellan to the mattress with the force of it. There was nothing untoward about getting a hug from a friend. Even if Cole was naked on top of him. Lavellan brought a hand up to stroke Cole's hair, which was silky soft and smelled amazing thanks to Dorian's efforts. The tasteless fop was good for something, at least. Fucking Dorian. Fucking shems. Lavellan much preferred spirits. He pulled Cole into a tighter hug, tangling their legs together.

“The Iron Bull told me no full hugs,” Cole said. “This makes people feel better?”

“Yes, Cole.” Lavellan's body was getting ideas about having a naked man on top of him. He shifted, so his erection didn't press into Cole's hip. He rubbed Cole's back with one hand, the other scratching lightly at Cole's scalp. “You should probably put some clothes on before helping anyone else like this.”

Cole curled into him, the muscles in his back relaxing under Lavellan's hand. “I like this,” he said. He had his head rested against Lavellan's chest. He arched into the touch on his back and butted against Lavellan's other hand when it travelled across his back. Too unversed in social etiquette to do anything else but show his pleasure.

Lavellan lowered his hand to the small of Cole's back. He had little dimples above his kidneys. A rather cute feature that Lavellan circled his thumb around, while he continued to ruffle Cole's hair. Cole sprawled over him, making little contented noises, like one of those huge Fereldan dogs. Lavella let his thumb circle lower and lower, until he cupped Cole's buttock. Just a little indulgence. It wasn't as if he was going to hurt Cole.

Cole's whole body went immediately stiff. He looked up at Lavellan, peeking out of his ruffled hair. Lavellan squeezed, finding Cole's backside as firm and muscular as any of the men he'd bedded. Cole frowned. “What--?”

Lavellan yanked Cole's face up to his mouth and kissed him. Cole's mouth stayed closed, a panicked breath pushing out of his nose.

“Open your mouth,” Lavellan said. Surely Cole had seen enough to know what a kiss was. The intense, sudden want startled Lavellan as much as Cole. But why were either of them surprised? Cole wasn't entirely ignorant of the world. He knew enough to realise that draping naked all over someone was a come-on. Lavellan's cock throbbed. Pushing it against Cole's body was barely any relief. He hadn't had anyone in so long, and Cole was so obedient.

Lavellan rolled them both over and took another kiss with Cole beneath him. Cole's mouth slackened but he didn't respond, a soft whimper escaping from him when Lavellan gripped his jaw hard enough to leave nail marks in the skin. Cole was rigid now, all the tension that had bled out of him during the hug returned tenfold.

“I don't understand,” Cole said, muffled under next few kisses Lavellan tried to take.

Lavellan reeled away from him. Lavellan was panting like some wild beast, painfully hard, Cole's skin under his fingernails. And Cole was just sitting with his legs crossed at the ankles. Watching. Always watching. Lavellan turned his back and pulled open drawer after drawer. He must have something that would fit Cole. Somewhere. There.

He threw the clothes at Cole. “Put those on.”

Cole's big, confused eyes continued to bore into Lavellan as he pulled on the clothes.

“Stop looking at me!”

Cole dropped his gaze.

Lavellan was shaking with unspent energy, his fists clenching and unclenching. “Don't you tell anyone about this.”

“Too rough with the other boys,” Cole muttered. “Broke Thalin's arm. Said it was just rough-housing but Thalin swears he twisted deliberately until the bone cracked. Needs to control his temper if he ever wants to be First--”

Lavellan grabbed Cole's face, squashing it in his hand. He forced it up to meet his. Cole's eyes were lowered, so as not to disobey the order not to look. “Shut up. You won't tell anyone about this. You won't tell anyone about the binding. If anyone asks, I cleaned you up and I gave you some new clothes. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Cole said, with some difficulty thanks to the way Lavellan held his face. “You don't want anyone to know you kissed me. It would hurt them. I won't tell.”

Lavellan let his fingers fall from Cole's face. He stroked Cole's hair, forcing himself to be gentle. Cole rubbed against the touch, like a cat. Awfully eager to take comfort from him, even though he'd been so reluctant to give Lavellan a tiny kiss.

“Good boy,” Lavellan said. “Off you go then.”

***

It was one thing to be aware of how the shems treated elves, another to see it first hand. Lavellan wanted to forget Halamshiral, to forget horsey nobles staring at his ears, mistaking him for a servant, whispering slurs behind their painted fans... Forget a kitchen full of dead elves. Of course, his companions insisted on chatting excitedly about it. Their conversations about masks, finery, and h'ors d'ouevres buzzed in his ears like one of Sera's jars of bees.

If he didn't have a world to save, Lavellan would have killed Gaspard, Celene, and Briala. Instead, he'd forced the elf-butchering bastards to work together. He could only hope they'd all destroy each other during the next civil war.

Lavellan didn't want to set eyes on anyone without pointy ears for a while, so he hid in Solas' office. He didn't even greet Solas, just slumped down on the small couch by the wall. Solas was reading, exuding calm and patience in a way that reminded Lavellan of his keeper.

“Is everything all right, falon?” Solas asked, joining him on the couch. He held his book in one hand, keeping his place with a finger.

“A genocidal human and her race traitor lover rule Orlais,” Lavellan said. “Why wouldn't I be all right?”

“Perhaps Briala will make up for her past mistakes.”

Lavellan gave a bitter laugh. “Or perhaps Celene will guilt her into purging another alienage.” Lavellan had always thought himself better than the city elves. Why stay hemmed into the squalid corners shems designated for you? What kind of elf would placidly accept that? He'd had no idea. Was only beginning to realise the ways in which his Keeper had shielded him from the reality of what it was to be an elf. Lavellan sighed. “I miss my clan.”

He and Solas had... disagreed about the Dalish. Since then they'd avoided the topic entirely. If Solas and his Vasallin-less face mocked him right now, Lavellan wouldn't be responsible for his actions. 

Solas didn't.

“There are some injustices you cannot fix,” Solas said, and repeated it in Elvish. Lavellan let his head fall back against the wall, listening to the soothing cadence of Solas' voice. He hadn't heard the old language spoken so fluently, even by his Keeper. “Nor would it be prudent to get more involved in Orlais' struggles while Corypheus remains. Simply continue to lead us as you have, and views on elves will be forced to change.”

The Hero of Fereldens efforts hadn't changed them. Lavellan grimaced, remembering Cole's body under his. Cole's pursed lips refusing to open. “I'm not the saviour they need.”

“Only history paints men as saviours. The reality is often far humbler.”

Lavellan grinned at Solas. “Humble, am I?”

“Isn't that the tale the Chantry likes to tell of their holy men and women?” Solas said, a smile touching his lips. “Rising to do great good despite their meagre beginnings.”

Doing good. Solas might be the only person who still believed that of Lavellan. Or perhaps Solas believed it because he needed to, so afraid of dying alone he'd convinced himself that Lavellan was the saviour he needed. Speaking of loneliness, thanks to Dorian's petty revenge – Lavellan had heard everything from rumours of his violent crotch rot, to talk of him having a vestigial tail – were keeping Lavellan's bed empty. Even the servants and staff who'd have bedded Lavellan at the click of a finger before were turning their noses up at him. At least until the next heroic feat had them pathetically swooning again.

Solas had returned to reading, one ankle propped on his knee so he could support the book on his leg. Dying alone. Lavellan had thought it an unlikely fear until his relationships with the rest of the Inquisition started to strain and buckle under the weight of so many responsibilities. They tolerated Lavellan, but no more, an edge of saracasm in Varric's voice when he called Lavellan his Inquisitorialness. No more invitations to Wicked Grace games. Was that how it began for Solas? He'd never known a clan, but he must have had friends once, and a family.

Lavellan edged closer to Solas. He sat so close they touched. Solas didn't look up from his book. 

“Solas?”

“Yes, falon?”

Lavellan touched his lips to Solas'. He forced himself to be gentle, as far removed from the rough, claiming kiss he wanted to take as possible. He expected Solas' firm hands on his shoulder, to be pushed down, and then gently refused. Instead, there was a soft thud as Solas shifted, his book hitting the floor. Solas drew Lavellan closer, until Lavellan was sitting on his lap like one of Bull's tavern girls. Solas pulled Lavellan against his chest. Lavellan huffed in surprise. Solas was broader than he was, arms more powerful than they had any right to be.

Solas' kisses were slow and sensual. As if Lavellan needed to be wooed. As if he wanted anything more than to get off. Lavellan wriggled in discontent. He felt caged by Solas' bigger, somehow stronger body, and gentle kisses. Lavellan seized the back of Solas' head and kissed harder, more desperately. In the absence of hair, Lavellan yanked on Solas' ears.

Solas jerked his head back. “Gently now,” he said, with only the slightest chastisement. He sounded faintly amused, as if Lavellan was a puppy who had nipped too hard.

Lavellan rested his hands on the back of Solas' neck. They returned to those infuriating slow, deep kisses. As talented as Solas was, Lavellan didn't have the patience for it. He squirmed, wondering how to get Solas' mouth occupied with other things. Solas seemed content to kiss for hours, totally ignoring Lavellan's cock.

“Solas,” Lavellan said, against Solas' half-open mouth as he tried to take yet another kiss.

“Apologies,” Solas said. Another quirk of his lips. So, so amused by Lavellan for some reason. “It's been too long since I indulged.”

Solas undid the laces of Lavellan's trousers. Lavellan bucked his hips toward the touch. He was willing to put up with this a few moments longer, willing to put up with being held in Solas' lap like one of those ridiculous tiny dogs, if he finally got to get off. Solas kissed the sides of Lavellan's neck as he finally, finally delved his fingers inside Lavellan's smalls and drew out his cock. Fenedhis. Solas did everything so blighted slowly. Lavellan ground his teeth, enduring more kisses to the sides of his face. He didn't need that. Didn't need to be coddled and gentled like a frightened virgin.

Solas wrapped his fingers around the base of Lavellan's cock. Lavellan hissed, thrusting instinctively into his fist. Solas chuckled at the low growl Lavellan made when he unclasped his hand. Was Lavellan's desperation funny to him? Lavellan's face burned with humiliation, hips chasing Solas' hand.

“Calm down,” Solas said. “There's no rush, surely.”

Lavellan wanted to swear and rage at him but he was pathetically hard already from one firm squeeze around his length. He made a noise of frustration as Solas kissed him again, only slightly mollified by Solas stroking him. Slowly. Agonisingly slowly. He may get off like this, but it would take years. Nothing like the quick release he needed. Too slow. Too gentle. The pace, even his position, controlled by Solas' whims. The gentle admonitions too close to those his Keeper would use when Lavellan grew too eager with his magic, before confiscating his staff. Even the tugs on his cock seemed conciliatory. More like Solas was indulging him than any real sex act. Lavellan choked on memories and the embarrassment of it. 

He grabbed Solas, digging his fingertips deep into the suddenly tense muscles of his neck. Turned the kiss into a sharp, biting thing, using his whole body to push Solas into the wall. Solas grunted and peeled Lavellan away from him.

“Not so rough,” Solas said, in the same chiding voice. Like a stern father. Like his Keeper.

Lavellan shoved himself off Solas' lap, and fumbled to put his clothing right. Solas had been the worst person to go to. All that calm control. He'd never give Lavellan what he needed; a throat, or an arse to fuck, some mindless rutting to escape from everything for a few moments before it all came back. And Lavellan had indulged in this pathetic display at the bottom of the rotunda, too. Where anyone might have seen him being pulled around like a mewling catamite.

Lavellan walked out, ignoring Solas' concerned bleating. Lavellan pulled the tails of his robes over his crotch, lest anyone see the Herald of Andraste with a raging erection. Maybe Bull would have the good sense to shut up and let Lavellan use his mouth. He claimed to be so good at reading people. Lavellan half-ran into the tavern. And of course, Bull already had a barmaid on each knee.

Lavellan ran up the stairs to the top floor. Maybe some getting some air on the battlements would cool him off. On the top tread of the staircase, he remembered Cole. Cole actually tried to leave when he caught sight of Lavellan. He darted toward the door to the battlements, which Lavellan slammed shut with magic. Really, Lavellan wasn't in the mood for this nonsense. Cole running away from him like he was a pride demon?

“Where are you off to?” Lavellan said, closing the distance between them. 

Cole hovered in front of the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The nervous energy set Levellan's teeth on edge. Cole looked like he'd jump through the closed door given half a chance. “I wanted to check on Cullen,” Cole said. He wasn't very good at lying yet. “He shakes, wavering, bright blue bottles preying on his mind--”

“Yes, yes. I'm sure the Commander will be fine.”

“I should check. We should check together. We could help him!”

“I said he'd be fine!”

Cole shrank back a little at the snarl. “Solas is lost, confused, should I follow?”

“Enough!”

Cole shrank further. As if Lavellan's raised voice physically hurt him. Creators, what was wrong with him? Lavellan had seen him leap into battle against opponents thrice his size with no trace of fear. 

“I'm sorry, Cole,” Lavellan said, lowering his voice. He was still half-hard, still full to the brim of frustration and rage at Orlesian politics. That must be it. A confusing mess to someone with Cole's powers. However, his apology didn't settle Cole at all. He stayed guarded and hunched, back pressed against the door. Oddly cute, like a nug going limp in the jaws of a fennec.

Lavellan found himself toe to toe with Cole. He stroked Cole's hair, confused when he didn't calm. “What's wrong, Cole?”

“It didn't feel the same,” Cole said.

“What didn't?” Lavellan said, dredging patience up from Creators knew where. He needed to get back to his quarters and deal with all the pent-up frustration. It would have to be his hand again, thanks to the combined efforts of Dorian and Solas.

“When you kissed me. It didn't feel the same as when Evangeline did it. She was soft, warm, welcoming. You are hard, cold, conquering.”

Lavellan placed his hands either side of Cole's head, barring him between his arms. If only Cole wasn't so damn tall. “I've had a very trying day, Cole. I don't want to hear any more about my faults.”

Cole shook his head and kept shaking it, waving it from side to side. The nervous motion caught up other parts of his body; he tapped his feet and drummed his fingers against the wood of the door. “I can't see where you hurt,” he said. “You're too bright. Too much. I see the way your hurt touches other people, but I don't know how to help you.”

“Like this.” Lavellan kissed him trying to be soft, warm, welcoming. Like Solas. Cole's breath came too fast through his nose, puffing warm air against Lavellan's cheek. Cole was as unresponsive as the first time, Lavellan's lips moving against his closed mouth. Lavellan growled “open”. It still wasn't quite a kiss. Cole's lips parted but nothing more. Like kissing someone unconscious. “Kiss me properly, Cole. Like... Like you must have seen others do.”

Cole gave Lavellan a kiss that left him breathless, mouth and body opening underneath him, yielding perfectly as Lavellan crushed him between his body and the door. Cole may not be able to see into Lavellan's mind but he clearly had some inclination. He must have learned all sorts of techniques... But that was a slow and delicate matter. One for a time when Solas hadn't left Lavellan half-hard and desperate, burning with humiliation.

Lavellan broke the kiss, aware that this was another public space. Cole looked more like he had been smacked than kissed, scowling most unpleasantly. Lavellan scowled back. Cole was cuter when he smiled.

“I don't understand what you want from me,” Cole said. As if it wasn't obvious, with Lavellan's body pressed against him, cock hardening fully from the kiss.

“You can learn,” Lavellan said. “That's part of being more human. Learning. Come. You can help me in my quarters.”

***

Lavellan took another kiss, the moment they were behind closed doors. Cole yielded to that one too, their lips locking, letting himself be pulled against Lavellan's body. As pleasant as the technique was, it was a little off. Cole responded but didn't appear to particularly enjoy it. He was silent and pliant. Doing as little as possible. Fulfilling the order in body but not in, ha, not in spirit. There was no answering hardness to Lavellan's in his trousers. No reddening of his cheeks. No dilation of his pupils. But that made sense... Cole was a spirit. He was only wearing that body as if it was another of those ridiculous hats.

Cole took pleasure in other ways.

“Good boy,” Lavellan said, after another kiss. “That was very good.”

That animated him. He gave Lavellan a smile with his gappy teeth. “I can go now?”

“Not yet. Take off your clothes, Cole.”

“They aren't dirty,” Cole said, even as he began to undress. If it were anyone else, Lavellan would have read that as sullen.

“And if you take them off, they won't get dirty.”

Cole didn't question that. He was so much easier than other people. Not stupid, but simple. He folded up his clothes on Lavellan's dresser in precise little squares. Someone must have shown him how to do it properly. One of the servants, perhaps. Lavellan wouldn't put it past them to exploit Cole's helpful nature for assistance with their chores. He removed his hat last and place it on top of the pile with the utmost care.

“Lie on the bed for me.”

Cole did. He stared up at the ceiling. There were little dimples in the mattress where he dug his toes into it. “I don't need to sleep,” Cole said. “I don't like dreams. It like being in the Fade but the wrong shape again.”

“It's all right,” Lavellan said, as he tugged off his own clothes. His nudity was another thing Cole, thankfully, didn't question. “We aren't going to sleep.”

“Another hug?” Cole said, and it was so hopeful Lavellan almost sent him away right there and then. Almost. But Cole shifted, opening one arm out for Lavellan, and the gold light from the balcony daubed him in warm tones. Cole often looked sickly and odd but in the right light, and naked, with his messy too-long hair falling back from his face...

Lavellan slid onto the bed. Cole curled into him with an eagerness that made Lavellan's cock twitch, even if he knew Cole wasn't eager for that. Lavellan peered down the line of Cole's body, all wiry muscles. Too attractive for something like Cole. Lavellan gently ran his nails up and down Cole's back.

“It feels nice when you do that,” Cole said.

Lavellan steadied his breath. “Do something that feels nice for me, Cole,” he said. Solas had been a mistake. He was older, bigger, measured and controlled. Fucking him would be like trying to fuck a stream. It would go whatever way it wanted. No way to overcome its own power.

“This?” Cole said, mimicking Lavellan's motion by running his nails over Lavellan's chest.

“No. This.” Lavellan took Cole's hand, and curled his fingers around his cock. Cole jerked his hand away as if he'd been scalded. Lavellan bit back the shout he wanted to let out, to voice the frustration after the momentary relief. Lavellan brushed the hair back from Cole's brow. He forced himself to be gentle, and painted concern onto his face. “What's wrong, Cole?”

Underneath the hair, Cole looked... distressed? He wore something that on a human might have been shame. The fist Lavellan had encouraged him to wrap around his cock, he scrunched in the sheet, bunching and un-bunching it.

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” Lavellan said. He wanted to be more human, didn't he? What was more human than sharing intimacy like this?

“I can't.” Cole rolled away, as if he was about to leap off the bed. Lavellan caught him around the waist and pulled him flush against him.

The muscles in Cole's abdomen jumped where Lavellan had his arm braced over his stomach. Lavellan shifted, pushing his cock between Cole's arse cheeks. Not inside, just against. Cole squirmed and made a distressed noise when Lavellan rolled his hips, sliding his cock between them. Just once. Cole lurched away, would have probably flung himself right off the bed if Lavellan hadn't been holding onto him.

“Stay,” Lavellan ordered. He grabbed a fistful of Cole's hair with his free hand, pulling Cole back against him. How dare he try to run. Lavellan could have done anything he wished to him, instead he had been nothing but gentle. “It's okay.” Lavellan held Cole in place but didn't move. He was being so, so patient. His Keeper would be proud of him. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

Cole made that same distressed noise. “I want to go,” he said. “I don't want to hug anymore.”

“Shush. It's all right, Cole.”

Lavellan stroked Cole's hair and chest. He didn't relax like before. His posture remained rigid apart from where he tried to inch away from Lavellan's cock, although he stopped that after the third time Lavellan pulled him back. Lavellan ran his hands up and down Cole's chest and stomach, passing over spongy developing muscle, the occasional thin cord of scar tissue, feeling the racing heartbeat in his chest.

“What's the matter?” Lavellan said, when doing that for what seemed like hours didn't appear to calm Cole. Lavellan hadn't done anything untoward in all that time, and Cole still seemed as if he were ready to bolt. “I thought you liked being hugged?”

“This doesn't feel like a hug,” Cole said, in a small, tight voice. “I want to stop.”

“Don't you want to help me?”

The Rivaini told stories about doors that would only unlock when a particular phrase was uttered. Cole was like that. The notion of helping made him relax fractionally. “This helps you?”

“Very much, Cole.” Lavellan pecked Cole on the cheek, an innocent gesture in contrast to their intimate position. Really, Cole had nothing to be afraid of. It wasn't as if Lavellan was going to fuck him. “You don't have to do anything. Just stay right there.”

Cole nodded. “I want to help.” There was a rising inflection on the end of that sentence, turning it into a question.

“I know.” Lavellan gave him another peck. It seemed to calm him. “You're a good boy, Cole.” Lavellan peppered Cole's shoulders and neck in sweet little kisses. “Such a good boy.”

Lavellan wrapped his fist around Cole's cock as he rolled his own hips. Cole flinched. A full-body blanch that Lavellan couldn't help but feel. Lavellan bit into his shoulder for the ingratitude. Really, he didn't usually pleasure his lovers like this and he was usually balls-deep inside them, not rutting against their arses like a horny teenager.

Cole's cock hardened in Lavellan's grip. Cole wriggled in a most delightful way, pushing Lavellan's cock more firmly between his buttocks, like he was trying to escape Lavellan's hand by burrowing into his body. He made noises like a colicky child when Lavellan stroked him, but Lavellan could feel the evidence of how much he was enjoying it. Cole's cock was fully hard at the barest touch, pre-come letting Lavellan's hand glide down his length faster and faster. It must be the intensity of it. Lavellan was sure Cole had never touched himself before, and certainly no one else had.

Lavellan bucked his hips as he stroked, sliding his own pre-come slicked cock between Cole's arse cheeks. Cole shouted and whined, whole body trembling against Lavellan's, as he came into Lavellan's hand. Lavellan grunted his distaste. He seized Cole's hips so he could pull him to and fro, thrusting violently against – against, not inside, though it was so, so tempting – him. Until finally, finally, he claimed his own release. He came hard, spending himself across Cole's arse.

The moment Lavellan released him, Cole curled up on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest. Cole was quite lovely from the back, with his fair hair and his light muscle like a gymnast. Especially lovely covered in Lavellan's seed, and with finger marks on his hips from where Lavellan had gripped too hard. Lavellan ran an appreciative hand down Cole's back. Cole tensed as if he'd been jabbed with a poker.

“I can see you,” he said. “Not too bright anymore. Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull, dull, dull, dull, dull, dull--”

“Stop that!” Lavellan inched closer to him. “You did well, Cole. You helped me a lot.”

Cole didn't answer. He didn't move. Lavellan had to concentrate to even see him breathe.

“Not a word of this,” Lavellan said. “You can go and get cleaned up.”

Cole vanished, like he sometimes did in the midst of battle. Lavellan flopped onto his back, exhausted enough to fall into a blessed, dreamless sleep.

***

One of the runners summoned Lavellan to deal with a ruckus in the tavern. As if he didn't have more important things to do. Lavellan walked in on a tableau, like he'd stopped time by the sheer force of his presence. Cole was in the middle of the commotion. He had a man pinned underneath him, one dagger held to his throat. He looked wild and frantic, teeth bared and eyes too wide, far less human than he ever had. Iron Bull was on his feet, as was Krem. Above them, Sera had an arrow notched.

“Cole!” Lavellan yelled.

Cole released the man. Lavellan vaguely recognised him as some minor noble Josephine had introduced him to.

“Let Creepy slit his throat!” Sera protested, loudly, from her perch above them. She scurried down the stairs to confront Lavellan face-to-face. “You know I'm not his biggest fan, yeah? And I'm telling Prissy-Pants-McGropey-Hands there needs a knife in the throat if he's not getting an arrow. Gotta be the right thing to do.”

'Prissy Pants-McGropey-Hands' was standing in the middle of an unfriendly crowd, looking very alone. “What happened?”

“Asshole decided to grab Cole's ass,” Iron Bull said. “I'd have taken his head off if Cole hadn't gotten there first.”

Lavellan glared at the nobleman. The man deserved to die for the sheer stupidity of groping Cole in a bar that included Iron Bull and Sera. Not to mention that Cole wasn't his to touch.

“Escort our new friends to the dungeon, Bull,” Lavellan said. “I'll deal with him later. Publicly.”

Cole still had his dagger drawn. He stared, unblinking, at its point while Iron Bull dragged the noble away. Slowly, he turned his head to fix that unblinking gaze on Lavellan. Both the blade and his eyes seemed to spark. Lavellan shivered, remembering his nightmare and being frozen to the bone.

***

Lavellan dreamed of a dagger slashed across his throat, and big blue eyes watching every last drop of blood drain from his body. He started awake, half-expecting to find Cole sitting on his chest. He was alone, of course. He lay breathing hard, and stroked the scar on his inside wrist.

***

Dorian's silly rumours eventually lost their lustre, and Lavellan was willing to settle for men who were less exquisite than his companions if it meant no more awkward consequences. No more Solas treating him like a child with a skinned knee. No more sly, pointed remarks from Dorian. He had no shortage of suitors, but getting suitors was only half of the battle. So many saw a pretty elf and not the commander he was. Especially the humans. They treated him like a dainty little thing, rebuffing all attempts at roughness with amusement. The more wilful ones wouldn't let him fuck them, and they most definitely weren't getting near his arse, so they traded mutual hand jobs. Lavellan took humans only when he couldn't find city elves. Humans got ideas about their bigness. The problem was, he was running out of elves to fuck.

Which was how he ended up with one of Cullen's men. A scout whose name he'd already forgotten, and an arse Lavellan couldn't wait to sink his cock inside.

“There's something I like,” the scout said.

Lavellan groaned inwardly. He hated it when they talked. They tended to gibber about some painfully ordinary fetish, deciding Lavellan would be just the person to try it with.

“I'd never say it outside the bedroom..” the scout continued.

Lavellan ignored it in favour of ripping the recruit's trousers off. Either he'd spit it out, or he'd stammer until he forgot about it. Either way Lavellan wouldn't let the prattle distract him.

“But you could call me shem...”

Lavellan raised an eyebrow.

“...and I could call you knife ear?”

Lavellan had two fistfuls of fire before he'd even properly processed the words. The recruit didn't stop to dress. He ran. Knife ear burned like the fire in Lavellan's hands. It was a while before Lavellan was calm enough to dispel it.

“Cole,” he whispered, and squeezed the scar on his wrist.

Cole appeared. He was beginning to look ill again. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper, so much so that his eye sockets looked hollow in the shadows under the brim of his hat. He was hunched, both hands twisting in the hem of his shirt, looking pale and small and frightened. Not the sharp, feral thing he'd been in the tavern. Not a thing like that filthy bastard shemlen Lavellan had chased out. Lavellan deserved more.

Lavellan lifted the hat from Cole's head. Someone had tied the loose ends of his hair up, in the same style as Varric's. Varric himself maybe. Or Cole imitating Varric. It suited him. Cole was actually quite attractive in his own way...

What was one moment of weakness compared to all the good Lavellan had done? He placed the hat carefully on his dresser, Cole's eyes tracking him the whole way. Without him, Cole would be a demon by now. He'd have a lot more to worry about than hats. Why should Cole be the only one to revel in his humanity?

“Undress,” Lavellan said.

Cole did. Unlike the other times, he tried to cover himself by shifting one leg in front of the other. “This won't help,” he said. “It won't change how others feel about you. Or how you feel about yourself.”

“I'll decide what helps me.” Lavellan cupped Cole's cheek. It was meant to be a comforting gesture but Cole refused to look him in the eye. “Please, Cole. I need this. I need you.”

“You need to stop.”

Lavellan's grip tightened reflexively on Cole's face. “Didn't I just tell you that I'll decide what I need?”

“Your Keeper said you needed to learn control, but you never understood. You needed to learn to control yourself.”

Lavellan laughed. It was meant to be derogatory, but came out hysterical. “Aren't you grateful? I bound you like you asked. No one else would do that for you.”

“I was grateful.”

“You owe everything you are to me.” Lavellan tugged Cole toward the bed. He followed, if stiffly, and lay down without any prompting. “If it weren't for me, the Inquisition would have slain you on sight. If it weren't for me,” Lavellan bit out the words as he shed his clothing. “You'd be a demon. A monster. With nothing to tether you, you'd become one of those things that spills out of the rifts. Mindless and destructive.” Lavellan ran his fingers over Cole's lips. “You need to learn how to be human. We need to make sure everything about you that's other dissolves and never harms anyone else. You don't want to hurt people, do you, Cole?”

“No.”

Cole looked past Lavellan, up to the ceiling. His eyes gave away nothing. If it weren't for the slow rise and fall of his chest he'd look dead. Exactly like the dead boy he'd tried so desperately to become.

Lavellan kissed his brow. “It's okay, Cole,” Lavellan said in as soft a voice as he could muster. “I'll be gentle.”

Cole didn't move a muscle. Didn't blink.

“Open your legs,” Lavellan said. “Spread yourself for me.”

Whatever else he was, Cole had the flexibility of a rogue. He lifted his knees up to his chest with ease, and spread his arse cheeks with his hands. Lavellan grabbed his cock at the sight of the filthy, debasing position. The fact that it was Cole made it alluring in ways Lavellan didn't want to examine. The innocent spirit of compassion spreading himself like a practised whore.

Lavellan covered himself in just enough slick not to make Cole bleed and moved over Cole. He slid inside him. Cole was indescribably tight. Almost painful as he clenched around Lavellan's cock, inner muscles spasming in a futile attempt to push him out. Cole's fingers dug into the skin where he still spread himself open, leaving dark red marks. Lavellan gave a brutal thrust, burying his cock to the root. Lavellan allowed himself one gluttonous moan that drowned out Cole's cry. Lavellan closed his eyes and drowned in the sensation of Cole's body clenching around him. All his. Lavellan gave a few slow thrusts. Gentle. Painstakingly gentle. He'd never wanted to hurt Cole.

Lavellan opened his eyes, wanting to drink in the sight of Cole around his cock. Watch himselfk sink in and out of that tight little hole. Instead, he found Cole's blank eyes, locked with his but not really. The gaze was turned inwards. Hollow skull eyes like the shadows under his hat. Enough to put him off his stride. Lavellan covered them over with his hand.

Better to concentrate on Cole's lips, Cole's half-hard cock rubbing against Lavellan's belly every time he moved over him, Cole's thighs against Lavellan's hips, the too-intense pleasure when he drew back and thrust forward, loosening Cole up every time. The noises Cole made when Lavellan sped up were close enough to moans.

“You're being so good,” Lavellan chanted with each thrust. “So good. You're helping me so much.”

Lavellan kissed Cole as he came, tasting teeth when Cole absolutely refused to yield to it. Lavellan gasped against those clenched teeth, coming harder than he ever had in his life, pelvis pressed flush against Cole's arse until he'd emptied every last drop inside him.

Lavellan uncovered Cole's eyes. Tears had welled underneath. They came silently, but so thick and fast that they pooled in the corners of his eyes and ran down the sides of his face. Cole raised his hand and placed it on Lavellan's forehead.

“Forget,” he said.

Lavellan closed his eyes, and waited, painfully aware that his softening cock was still inside. Minutes passed, and everything stayed the same. “I don't think that works on me.”

Cole turned his hand on himself. “Forget.” Judging by the fresh well of tears, it didn't work on Cole either. “You hurt people.”

“Sometimes I have to,” Lavellan said. He'd never killed anyone before the Inquisition. It had never been necessary. That was the hunters' job. “Better to hurt some than let the whole world suffer.”

“Not like that. Shem boy with soft blond hair like dandelion fluff. Raiding our stores. Stealing our food and furs. Do you know what Dalish elves do to thieves? Do as I say and I won't tell the others. I couldn't see it until you hurt me. Thalin grew up so handsome. A strong hunter now, but his body remembers an arm bent until it broke.”

“I didn't hurt either of them.”

“You raped them.”

“That's a lie!” Lavellan had fire in both hands again, the rage so consuming he was amazed the whole room wasn't on fire and Cole along with it. “I never did anything they didn't ask for.”

“You made it so they'd ask. You made it so they had to ask.”

The fire disappeared in an instant and somehow Lavellan had both hands around Cole's neck. So tight he could feel the column of Cole's windpipe. Could crush it if he applied enough force. His cock thickened inside Cole and he pulled out, cursing his body's reaction. Cole fought the choking in a way he hadn't fought before. He scrabbled at Lavellan's hands with his nails, feet kicking up in a curious little dance, making pathetic noises that rumbled through his throat and Lavellan's hand. Not so still now, was he? If he really hadn't wanted it, he could have fought like this then.

Lavellan let go only when Cole's lips started to turn blue. Lavellan dropped him, wheezing and spluttering, among the pillows.

“I don't want you to repeat any of those – of those lies,” Lavellan said. “Not to me, or anyone else.”

“You hurt people,” Cole protested, if hoarsely. There was a band of bruising around his neck that he'd have to keep covered up.

“I help people, and if you besmirch my character you'll hurt Thedas. Only I can stop demons pouring into the world. What are your stories compared to that?”

“Nothing,” Cole said. “None of us are anything.”

He disappeared. Lavellan touched his scar. Cole wouldn't be able to hide forever.

\--------------------------------------------------

“You all right, kid?” Iron Bull asked Cole. They were traipsing around the Emerald Graves. Lavellan was picking up thousands of plants and swearing every time a nug got near him. That was the boss. Really fucking weird about elfroot. “You're quiet.”

“Fasta vass,” Dorian said. “Don't complain. I haven't fully recovered from the roast supper from the roast's point of view.”

“I'm fine, the Iron Bull,” Cole said. “There is a lot of old hurt here.”

Iron Bull examined Cole. There wasn't much of him to see with the hat in the way, and Cole was hard to read in any case. He did weird shit as a matter of course. But he had been quiet. Not just today either. It wasn't as if Bull wanted his innermost thoughts shouted out for everyone to hear, but its absence was obvious. Kinda like you noticed when someone stopped slapping you in the balls. And there'd been that incident in the Herald's Rest.

“Anyone ever says or does anything you don't like,” Bull said. “You come and get me, all right?”

“You come and get me,” Dorian scoffed, making his voice low and growly the way it sometimes got in bed. “Goodness me, if you were any more of a cliché you'd be in one of Varric's books.

“I'm trying to help the kid.”

“The 'kid' stopped a Red Templar eviscerating you not five minutes ago,” Dorian said. “I'm sure he's perfectly capable of dealing with some louts in the tavern.”

Bull rolled his eye. For all Dorian's talk about how great he was, he sure didn't understand subtlety. Bull had been accused of the same once or twice but it wasn't quite right. He understood subtlety, he just didn't have much use for it. Most of the time.

The tavern incident kept coming back to him. That fucking noble had grabbed Cole's ass and he moved in for the kill without hesitation. That didn't fit with everything else Bull knew about him. He'd have expected confusion, or at the very least for the knives to stay away. Cole might be good at violence but he wasn't prone to it. The sudden and extreme violence of the reaction – deserved as it might have been – made Bull antsy. Like someone had already taught Cole the significance of a sleazy act like that.

“I see many hurts,” Cole said. “I already knew why it was bad.”

Right. Fucking mind-reader. “All right, kid, but... You can still come and get me if you need to.”

***

A loud girlish scream awoke Dorian. He kicked out at Bull. He had been abundantly clear that Bull was to wake him with breakfast or not at all. Most certainly not with his soprano impression. Dorian rolled over to see what in the world had pulled such a noise out of Bull. He started too. Cole's white face loomed out of the darkness, skin so pale it was luminescent in the moonlight leaking through the gaps in the roof. Bull had practically climbed onto the headboard like a startled cat. And people accused Dorian of being melodramatic. Dorian yawned, stretched, and rolled the quilt around himself. He bundled himself up in it before he ventured even a toe onto the freezing cold floor.

Then he looked properly at Cole and promptly froze all the way through. Cole was naked. He had bruises around his throat and a mess between his legs.

“Dorian,” Bull croaked.

Dorian swore and leapt out of bed. Bull needed tending to too. He had revealed fragments of the things he'd seen in Seheron. There were too many opportunists. Too many magisters of the worst kind. This sight was all too familiar for him. Dorian took his discarded robes from the floor and wrapped them around Cole's shoulders. Dorian didn't know whether to cry or vomit or both. He stamped down his own reactions for now. There were more urgent matters to deal with than how he felt about the whole thing.

“I'm sorry Dorian,” Cole said. “Your robe will be a mess.”

“It's only a robe,” Dorian said, in a choked voice that was trying to be cheerful. “There are plenty more where that came from. Is anything...?” Maker, how was he supposed to ask this? “Is anything sore?”

“Yes.”

Dorian winced, but he was used to Cole's peculiar way of interacting now. He should have known better than to ask an open-ended question. “Do you need a healer?”

“No.”

Dorian looked helplessly at Bull. Bull looked helplessly back. No. They couldn't both be out of their depth. He needed help. Cole needed help. If they'd caught the bastard in the act, they'd have been able to tear him – definitely him, the sight of congealed sperm on Cole's scratched thighs would have Dorian retching and sleepless for weeks – apart. This was beyond their remit. Beyond anyone's remit. Worse somehow than all of Corypheus' machinations.

“I knew something was wrong,” Bull said. He looked so miserable, Dorian would have pulled him into his arms if he didn't have Cole to tend to. “I should've--”

“You said to come and get you, the Iron Bull,” Cole said.

“Shit load of good I was,” Bull said. He rose slowly off the bed and pulled his trousers on. “Who did this, kid?”

“I can't say.”

“You can tell us,” Dorian said. “We'll make sure he never touches you again.” Indeed, it would be hard to touch anything when the man lay in cinders at Dorian's feet. If Cole wasn't so obviously in need of a minder, Dorian was sure Bull would be ripping doors off their hinges right now. The poor thing was just standing there and still covered in filth under Dorian's oversized robes. Dorian would have to take him for another bath – and taint all of the memories of teaching Cole the merits of good hygiene with it.

“No,” Cole said. “I can't say.”

Dorian frowned, then let out a hollow laugh. Of course. Of course. Dorian had been too wilful for him, but Cole would have been the perfect target. “I know.”

“You know,” Bull said. “Great.” He yanked the axe out of his bedpost. “Who do we need to kill?”

“The Inquisitor.”

“You're shitting me.”

“Do I look like I'm shitting you?” As if Dorian would joke at a time like this. He swallowed. “Our illustrious Inquisitor came to me in the library a few days ago.”

“Fear,” Cole said. “A new one. A fresh one. Like a moth fluttering in my chest, crawling up my throat. Teeth on my neck, like the ones on the hyenas' jaws he tosses on Hellisma's table. Can only fight with words. Please let words be enough.”

“You should have told me,” Bull said.

“Why?” So you could rip the Inquisitor's head off?” Dorian grimaced. “If I'd known he'd go so far with someone else, I might have.”

Bull hefted the axe onto his shoulder. “You're sure he did this?”

“I'm sure that Cole would let us know if we were condemning an innocent man.”

“Yes,” Cole said. “I can't say some things but I can talk around them. I can't say who it is. I can say who it's not.”

Dorian wanted to curl up and sob. Foolish and selfish, as if he was the one who had anything to cry about. “We can't kill him,” he said, hating himself more with every syllable. But it was true. Loathsome as he was, Lavellan was the only one who could seal rifts. Dorian had seen the future without Lavellan's mark, and it couldn't be allowed to pass. No matter what.

“Like hell we can't!” Bull said. “All we need's that magic hand. The rest of him's mine.”

“We have no way of knowing that the mark will work with him dead,” Dorian said. And he'd thought he'd hated himself before. “But Lavellan's precious reputation is everything to him. He won't want something like this getting out.” Dorian's neck prickled where Lavellan's lips had touched it. “We need only make him aware that we know, and he'll be forced to stop... We can ensure that Cole's never alone long enough for him to get his filthy hands on him.” Dorian glanced at Cole. His silence was worrisome. As if he wasn't aware he was part of this conversation. “Does that suit you, Cole?”

“Yes,” Cole said. “I don't want to be alone.”

Dorian eyes welled. He couldn't help it. He swallowed again. If Cole wasn't crying, then he had no right to start. “He won't hurt you again, Cole,” Dorian said. Not while he drew breath.

“We're just going to let him walk around?” Bull said. “Pretend like he's this fucking prophet?”

“We're going to do as Cole wishes, despite what we may feel about the matter,” Dorian said, sternly. “Is there anything else you'd like, Cole?”

“For it not to have happened,” Cole said.

Dorian wasn't quite sure he was keeping his tears in check. He saw Bull duck his head and wipe his eye with the back of his hand. “That's... I'd like that too, Cole. But what can we do for you right now?”

“I don't want to be alone,” Cole repeated. “And I left my hat.”

“You won't be alone,” Dorian said. “You can sleep here, between Bull and I. Or not sleep if you'd prefer. Whatever you want. I'll fetch your hat in the morning.”

“You're not going anywhere near that asshole,” Bull said. “Not when he's got his eye on you.”

“Bull. Can we concentrate on the matter at hand?”

Bull laid his huge hand on Cole's shoulder. Slowly and gently, like he was approaching a skittish horse. Cole didn't seem affected by the contact. That was one thing, at least. “You like nugs, right?” Bull said. Dorian squinted at him. Who in the Void said anything about nugs? Who could even think about nugs at a time like this?

“Nugs are good,” Cole said. “Nugs don't hurt anyone, and they're scared all the time until you show you're friendly.”

“That's them.” Bull hurried to the other end of the room and pulled a crate from under his bed. He shoved it back before Dorian could examine the contents. He held out a stuffed toy for Cole. A nug with wings. “Krem makes these. Go on. It's yours now.”

Cole took the ridiculous thing like it was the most wonderful gift in the world. “Thank you, the Iron Bull. It doesn't make the hurting stop, but it helps.”

Cole settled in the middle of the bed. He cocooned himself within Dorian's robes, pulling the nug inside with him.

“The very second Corypheus is dead,” Dorian said, to Bull. “The very second Lavellan isn't needed...”

“Dibs on his head,” Bull said.


	2. Subjected to His Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: graphic rape again. This section has coerced Iron Bull/Cole.

This was one of the few times in recent memory that Bull wasn't being a thorn in Lavellan's side, and it came at the cost of Lavellan playing nursemaid to the enormous brute. It had taken a whole squad of soldiers to carry Bull into Lavellan's quarters, especially since he kept trying to slide out of their grips. Now he was settled in Lavellan's bed. Or as close to settled as he was ever going to get. He babbled in Qunlat. Lavellan kept catching the word 'kadan, kadan, kadan' over and over again. Lavellan didn't understand the word but he recognised the panic. Yes, it must be terrifying for Bull, so afraid of possession, to lose control of his faculties like this. He seemed vaguely aware of where he was, as much as anyone in his state could be. A panicked flurry went through him whenever he caught sight of Lavellan's face. A panic that might well break Lavellan's bed if he kept it up. Twice, Bull managed to sit up, only to slide down into the pillows with a groan.

Lavellan dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth cooled with magic. “You're fine,” Lavellan said, as the coolness lulled Bull into silence and, thankfully, stillness. “A concussion. Next time think twice before attacking a dragon with your face.”

Bull pulled the cloth tighter to his forehead. “Kadan?”

Or perhaps he wasn't all that aware. There was actual affection in those words. Not that there was much chance of having a conversation with him like this. Lavellan had a concussion once, and still didn't remember anything between riding straight into a tree and waking up to his Keeper's concerned face. Bull would recover fully, unfortunately. Bull had been dogging Lavellan's steps, accompanying him on every mission, dragging him to drink after drink with the glaring Chargers until it was too late for him to reasonably do anything but sleep, engaging him in numerous nonsensical conversations whenever Lavellan caught sight of Cole. And in battle, Bull no longer fought aside Lavellan. He used to act like a barricade. Now he let Lavellan be flanked. Encouraged it, whenever he thought he could get away with it. The great oaf had accidentally-on-purpose almost hit Lavellan in the head with his maul three times now.

Bull was not being as subtle as he thought. Cole had told him something, somehow. Cole could be sneaky like that. Like in battle, looking all innocent and fragile until the knives came out.

“Cole has been telling you tall stories, Bull,” Lavellan said.

“Cole?” Bull said, surprisingly coherent if a little slurred. “Yeah, I know that name... know Cole...” And then back to mumbling in Qunlat. 

Lavellan traced his thumb over Bull's lower lip. He didn't seem to notice, as gentle and cooperative as a druffalo.

“Don't hurt him,” Cole said, urgently. He must have 'poof'ed into existence right behind Lavellan. He'd been avoiding him since they'd fucked. Lavellan had allowed it. Not that he'd had much choice with Bull on his heels like a hulking inconvenient shadow. But they'd both have to be dealt with.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

Lavellan took a step toward Cole. Cole jumped back, ready to dodge as if this were a fight. “Cole,” Lavellan said, summoning all the patience he had. “Hasn't lying gotten you into enough trouble?”

“I showed him. After you...” Cole swallowed, Adam's apple jumping in his throat. “I went to him. Please don't hurt him. Please.” Cole looked particularly pitiful with his eyes huge and imploring. “I did it. Not him.”

“Why do you assume I'd hurt him?” Lavellan said. “Don't I go running to the ends of Thedas and back for my inner circle?”

“Yes,” Cole said, looking down at his feet. He had them curled up in the rug like little beetles. “The Iron Bull... Struggling, clawing, so much of himself behind locked doors, can't even get to his feet. Words want to burst out. Kadan. I want kadan.”

“Kadan? He keeps saying that. What does it mean?”

Lavellan hadn't thought it was possible for Cole to get any paler but he did. “I don't know Qunlat,” he said.

That was obviously a lie, but Lavellan let it slide. “Does anyone else know about you and me?”

Cole pursed his lips, but the word still burst out. Dorian. Although it sounded like 'Dorn' between Cole's closed lips and clamped teeth. Dorian and Iron Bull. Of course. Of course Cole would go running to two of the biggest bleeding hearts in the inquisition. All Cole would have to do was look suitably sad and they'd be wrapped around his finger.

“I told you not to tell anyone.”

Cole twisted his fingers in the hem of his shirt. “Please don't hurt the Iron Bull.”

“You're so convinced I'm going to hurt him. Why is that?”

Cole didn't answer, just kept fidgeting. He'd been quiet and sullen lately. Always giving the sad puppy eyes to anyone who loked at him. Even Vivienne and Sera had started to ask questions about it. And if they were asking questions, others might start too. And those questions might reach the ears of Leliana.

“I can look happy,” Cole said, pasting a comically fake smile onto his face. “If that's what you want, I can be happy.”

“I'm not going to hurt Bull.”

Cole didn't believe him. Lavellan could tell by the way the fake smile drained from his face.

“In fact, you're going to make him very, very happy.”

“No,” Cole whined, as if that was the worst thing Lavellan could have said. “No. I can't-- I don't--” Cole flickered in and out of existence for a few shimmering moments. Trying to disappear but failing when Lavellan pressed the scar on his inside wrist. The ugly thing was better than a summoning circle.

“Stay, Cole,” Lavellan said.

Cole's shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping back to his feet. He didn't resist when Lavellan undressed him, nor did he assist. Pliant like a doll when Lavellan moved his limbs around. Lavellan raked his fingers down Cole's broad, naked chest, further down across his jumping stomach muscles, and into the soft blond hair at the base of his cock. Cole grimaced but didn't pull back. He was learning. 

“Good boy,” Lavellan said, and pecked him on the cheek. Cole did flinch then, from either the words or the kiss.

Lavellan tsked but that was a drop in the ocean compared to how disobedient Cole had already been. “You like to give people what they want, Cole.”

“Don't make me hurt the Iron Bull,” Cole said, yet again. “I don't know what will happen if I hurt someone deliberately. Solas said that when a spirit's purpose is—”

“Solas isn't in charge.”

“No but he knows more about spirits than you, and I don't want to be a demon again. I don't want--”

“Shhh,” Lavellan said. Cole was babbling frantically, the words tumbling out all at once, his voice steadily rising. “You're not a spirit, Cole. You're a boy.” Lavellan pulled Cole into a hug and petted his hair and back, the way someone would calm a nervous dog. “I'll never let you become a demon.” Cole was tense and rigid in his arms, like he was hugging one of the training dummies. “You're bound to my will, and that's the last thing I'd want from you.”

“But Solas--”

“Solas doesn't know as much as he thinks he does.” He would have known the amulet wouldn't work if he did. “And he doesn't have your best interests at heart. He wasn't willing to bind you, like I was. And he wanted you as more of a spirit because he likes spirits, not because that was what was best for you. Just do as I say and you'll never have to be afraid of becoming a demon again.”

Lavellan thought he heard a faint whimper but it was hard to tell with Cole's face buried in his shoulder and Bull's incessant babbling. Lavellan would have to get the healers to give him another check-over. Later.

“You're not going to run to Dorian and Iron Bull again.” Lavellan held Cole tighter as he tried to pull away. “I told you that what happens between us is private. I told you not to tell anyone. And you found a way to sneak around that.”

A definite whimper this time. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please. Please don't make me.”

“Shush now. You're used to living in a world where you can erase your mistakes. People make mistakes, but they also have to live with the consequences--”

“I won't tell anyone else. I promise. I'll tell Dorian it wasn't you. Please.”

“Let me speak, Cole.” Although it was a struggle to be heard over Cole's suddenly ragged, hiccoughy breathing. Lavellan's shoulder was hot and damp where he'd burst into sudden tears. “Shhh. Settle down.” Cole was clammy against him, unpleasant on his always too-cold skin. Really, such hysterics now? When Lavellan had fucked Cole there hadn't been a single outburst. He'd been unnaturally quiet, in fact. “I'm not going to make you do anything Bull doesn't want.”

Cole's response was unintelligible. More unintelligible than usual. Probably more pleases.

Lavellan awkwardly dragged him over to the bed. Cole seemed to want to simultaneously squirm out of his grip and lean his entire weight against him all at once. When Lavellan released him, he curled up on the carpet sobbing. Huge, messy sobs that racked his chest. Ridiculous. Iron Bull was a brute. He loved sex. Loved 'conquering', as he'd been all too pleased to tell Dorian in front of everyone. And he liked interfering in Lavellan's business, so here was a way for him to get exactly what he wanted. Lavellan left Cole and dragged the covers down. The soldiers who had carried Bull up had already removed Bull's belt and chest harness to make it easier for him to breathe. It was just those ridiculous trousers and huge slabs of muscle under the sheets.

Bull batted at Lavellan with his huge, shovel-sized hands but there was no strength behind it. He uttered a few harsh syllables of Qunlat. It probably wasn't personal.

“On the bed, Cole.”

Cole dragged himself off the floor, only to collapse onto the bed. He buried his face in Bull's hip, both hands bunched in Bull's trousers, crying with the loud abandon of a child. Bull ventured a few rough pats on his head. That only made Cole sob harder.

Lavellan pulled Bull's trousers and smallclothes down, ignoring Cole for now. Bull grabbed for them but his fingers wouldn't close and the material slipped away like water. Lavellan hmmmed, impressed by the sight of Bull's exposed cock. Bull was a huge man, and in proportion. Cole looked tiny on top of his naked body.

Lavellan gripped the back of Cole's neck. His pale skin bruised so easily, fingerprints already forming on the thin skin there. Lavellan steered him by the neck and pressed Cole's face into Bull's crotch.

“No,” Cole whimpered. “No. No.”

He surged upward and flung his arms around Lavellan's neck. He kissed Lavellan desperately and pushed his body against his, enticing for all its lack of finesse. “Please,” he whispered against Lavellan's mouth. His kisses tasted salty from the floods of tears. “I'll do it to you. For you. Anything you tell me to. The Iron Bull needs a healer.”

While the armful of naked young man was distracting, Lavellan was trying to teach Cole about consequences. Not that he could seduce his way out of said consequences. Besides, Bull was a randy sod. He flirted unsubtly with everyone and constantly bragged about his conquests. Lavellan was sure he wouldn't say no to Cole's sweet little mouth.

“It won't do him any harm, Cole.”

“Nononono--”

“Cole! Suck Bull's cock for me.”

Cole recoiled from Lavellan. “No,” he moaned. “I can't.”

More tears. This was getting tiresome. “You can and will.”

Lavellan took a fistful of Cole's hair in one hand and twisted his ear in the other. Cole thrashed so hard against him he almost tore off both. “Stop this right now.” Cole went limp at his command but didn't make any move to follow his first order. All of his muscles were tensed, body shaking, stretched to its elastic limit and ready to snap.

Was the binding weakening? He'd never been like this before. 

No, he was just being wilful. So pale that he was turning blue, lips blanching white. Obviously resisting was causing him measures upon measures of pain. Lavellan shoved him back down onto the bed and mashed his face into Bull's limp cock.

“You did this, Cole,” Lavellan said. “If you'd done as you were told in the first place, you wouldn't be here now. So learn your lesson or we might have to go and pay Dorian a little visit.”

Cole whimpered again. Such a cute little noise this time. Like the squeaks nugs made. The tears and the jutted-out bottom lip he bit to stop himself sniffling made him look even younger. He took a few shuddery breaths, getting the crying under control.

“There,” Lavellan said. “Now suck Bull's cock. Show him how good you are.”

Lavellan released Cole's hair, sure the threat against Dorian had hit home. Cole reached for Bull's cock with trembling hands. Bull still wasn't hard but Lavellan was sure he would have been had he been more aware of the situation. Lavellan was giving him a gift, after all. He hadn't even enjoyed Cole's mouth yet and he was letting Bull have the pleasure.

Cole's endearing lack of experience showed in the way he touched Bull's cock so tentatively, like a child reaching for something forbidden on a high shelf. Cole wrapped both hands around it. Bull groaned and inched up the bed.

“He doesn't want--”

“Not another word, Cole. Use your mouth.”

Lavellan relaxed back into the chair by the bedside to watch. Cole struggled to open his mouth wide enough to accommodate the head of Bull's cock, jaw stretched wide open.

“Use your tongue,” Lavellan said, snaking a hand into his robes to stroke his own half-hard cock. 

Cole poked out his tongue. He had stopped crying completely now but moisture glinted on his burning cheeks. A lovely thing, really. As awkward and knock-kneed as he sometimes appeared, Cole was a handsome young man under the bad clothes and bad haircut. Cole licked the head of Bull's cock. He winced as Bull reacted with another low groan, cock thickening in Cole's hands so fast it gave him a fright.

“Keep licking,” Lavellan said, giving himself a few lazy strokes.

Cole lapped at the head of Bull's cock, reluctance telegraphed in every motion. He gagged when pre-come beaded on his tongue and jerked back.

“Keep going!”

“But--”

Lavellan sighed. He knew a stalling tactic when he saw one and wouldn't be surprised if Cole knew exactly what it was. “It happens to men when you're making them happy. Go on. Keep going.”

Cole closed his eyes and ventured out his tongue again. He looked good working a cock. Lavellan was tempted to call Cole over to suck him off instead. Probably would have if Bull didn't also need to learn his place. Whatever Bull was saying in Qunlat had taken on a pleading quality. He had his hand braced against the top of Cole's head but was exerting no pressure. A lack of coordination further hindered by a desire not to hurt Cole, Lavellan would guess. The groans between his outbursts didn't sound pleasured. More like those of someone who was about to vomit.

“Put the head of his cock in your mouth.”

Cole squeezed the base in both hands and dove down. Clumsily. Bull jolted so hard the bed moved as Cole's teeth scraped over his glans. Cole whimpered, fighting to sheath his teeth with his lips stretched open around the head of Bull's cock. Despite – or because of – the teeth, Bull remained rock hard. Drool and pre-come leaked out of the corners of Cole's mouth and down his chin as he struggled to suck.

“More,” Lavellan said, breath hitching at the filthy sight. He sped up the strokes on his own cock at the thrill. “Swallow as much as you can take.”

Cole's eyes, already red-rimmed from crying, watered with the effort of swallowing more of Bull's cock. He barely managed a few inches and even that meant he had to draw Bull's cock into his throat. He choked, throat spasming and gag reflex firing violently, stomach muscles shuddering with the effort of it. His eyes watered so hard more tears streaked across his cheeks. Bull let out a belly-deep groan, hips twitching instinctively forward, forcing more of his cock down Cole's throat.

Cole made a shrill panicked noise and pulled back. Lavellan saw why as Bull orgasmed, pouring spurt after spurt of come onto Cole's shocked face.

The sight made Lavellan lose it too, coming in his pants like he was a teenager again. Cole stayed frozen where he was, looking stricken.

Lavellan stood up to inspect him. Bull's come streaked him from brow to chin and dripped onto his chest.

“You look good covered in come,” Lavellan said.

Cole cringed into himself, cheeks flushing red. Lavellan scraped some of the come from his chin and shoved three fingers full of it into his mouth. Cole opened for him, mouth slack and eyes downcast, more drool mixed with come coating his lower lip. If Lavellan was still hard, he'd fuck him right there on top of Bull. Cole gagged as Lavellan thrust his fingers too deep.

“Now,” Lavellan said, hooking a finger in the corner of Cole's mouth to pull him up to eye level. “You're going to make Bull forget that I was here. But make sure he remembers your eager little mouth on him.”

“Ee ogt--” Lavellan removed his fingers from Cole's mouth. “He won't remember this anyway.”

“But you're going to ensure he doesn't remember me, with your little memory trick. As far as he's concerned, every second of this was your idea. Do it now. Where I can see.”

“I don't know if--”

“Now.”

Cole primly pulled Bull's trousers up before he moved up his body. “Forget,” he said. It had better work. If it didn't, Lavellan would have to find a more permanent way of dealing with Bull and Dorian.

“I think it worked,” Cole said.

“Good boy.” Lavellan tossed him the damp cloth he'd used to mop Bull's forehead earlier. “Clean yourself up and then go and find Dorian. Make sure he doesn't remember anything about us.”

Coel stood up to scrub his face with the cloth. So hard he was bound to take some skin off as well. He held the cloth back out to Lavellan when he was finished. Lavellan incinerated the disgusting thing. He slumped back down in his chair, and grabbed Cole's wrist as he tried to leave. He didn't know what made him ask but he had to know.

“Cole,” Lavellan said. “What would you do if I broke the binding?”

“I would kill you,” Cole said, and the absolute conviction in his voice chilled Lavellan to the bone.


	3. A People Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for referenced rape, PTSD, and a suicide attempt.

Bull remembered trying to headbutt a dragon that was trying to headbutt him, and then nothing until he woke up in Lavellan's fancy-ass room. He still had a headache and his bruises were bruised, but he wasn't dead and Krem was sitting beside him. Things were looking up.

“Concussions are the worst,” Bull said, flexing his fingers and toes just to make sure everything still worked.

“I can think of worse things, Chief,” Krem said. “Like your puns.”

“Well, you're a... Vint... something...”

“Somebody too sore to come up with a decent pun?”

“Just give me a minute.”

“Come on, you big idiot. Let's get you back to your room. All this fancy furniture gives me the creeps.”

Him too, if he was honest. Or maybe it wasn't the fancy furniture. Lavellan was an asshole. A useful, world-saving, ending-the-apocolypse kinda asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. Bull tried to avoid him outside of missions. He flirted like a tavern lech – even worse than Bull did – too. Bull didn't want to hear about waking up in his bed. Bull lumbered to his feet and let Krem take some of his weight. Some, not all. All of it would have them both on the floor.

“You all right, Chief?”

“Aww, you worried about me?”

“Just wondering if Qunari always look like that when they get their arses handed to them by a dragon.”

“Hey, I'm the only one who walked away. I handed that dragon its own ass. Two handfuls of its ass.” Did he look that bad? Krem was being gentler with the ribbing than he expected. Bull still felt queasy. Still couldn't remember everything after the dragon that bore down on him. Not unusual with concussions. Sometimes the memory would trickle back. Sometimes it never did. There was a fresh surge of nausea and an ache behind his eye whenever he tried to bring the memory back, but that could just be the injury. Sometimes they liked to hang around for a couple of days.

He and Krem managed to get back to his room. Bull relaxed onto the bedding, sighing gently at the cool breeze wafting in through the open rafters. Dorian kept demanding he patch that up but it reminded him of bracing sea air. One of the few things he was homesick for. Lavellan's quarters had been hot and stuffy. The coolness here settled his stomach but it made him more aware of his own exhaustion. He knew the drill. He'd barely slept in the field and someone must have been watching over him after the concussion. Slapping his face whenever he looked like he might nod off. Probably Krem. The poor guy looked as exhausted as Bull felt, but fully ready to slap his face again all night if he had to.

“You want me to hang around, Chief?” Krem asked, lingering by Bull's bedside.

“Yes, Tama,” Bull said. “And feed me soup and wring your hands.”

Krem only lifted his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Want me to get that fop you're fucking?”

“I'm fine. Really. Just gonna sleep it off.”

“Mmhm. I'll be around if you need anything.”

***

Bull woke with a warm weight slumped on his chest. The only warmth he woke up to. Dorian had bundled himself in every one of Bull's blankets, like a pupa, with only his ruffled Vint head poking out. There were flecks of drool on his moustache, which he'd likely deny. He was snoring like a bronto too, which he'd definitely deny. Bull carded a hand through his hair. A sense memory of softer hair, less textured with scented oils, made him jerk it back. He flung Dorian off him, pitching himself onto all fours with a sudden violent retch. He felt bad about Dorian's indignant yowl but it had been all instinct.

Bull took deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. Dorian would never forgive him if he actually did throw up in his vicinity. And what the fuck? Where did that come from? It wasn't the first time he'd stroked someone's hair, not even close, and it had always, always been a good memory.

“Bull?” Dorian said, a step behind him now. “Do you want me to get a healer?” He sounded just like Krem had. Too worried to hide it behind good-natured jibes.

“Nah. No.” Bull made himself get up and sit on the edge of the bed. “It's nothing.”

Dorian sighed dramatically. He was wrapped in all the blankets still, only his feet poking out. Feet that were covered in thick, knobbly socks that were a riot of the brightest colours Bull had ever seen. Vivienne would probably set them on fire. Honestly, the sight of those socks was making him wonder if this whole thing wasn't a hallucination. Dorian tucked them into the blankets, noticing Bull's preoccupation with them.

“Sera has been knitting,” he said. “And they're warm. But that's by the by. Are you going to tell me what that rude awakening was in aid of?”

“Felt sick. Thought you'd rather I didn't throw up on you.”

“That's... accurate, but I believe you should no longer be feeling nauseated.”

Bull noted a pile of books by the side of his bed. They weren't his. The top one was titled Minor Maladies and How to Stop Them Becoming Major. Those Southern scholars were out of control with the length of their titles. “Had a lot of head injuries, have you?” Bull asked.

“Some of us fight with more finesse. Did you really fight three dragons with one arm tied behind your back? Because that's how the bard's telling it.”

“Just the one. Not that I couldn't take on three if I wanted to.”

“Are you trying to make me swoon?” Dorian inched closer. He held Bull's chin and stared right into Bull's eye. They weren't quite at the gazing lovingly into each other's eye stage yet, so it was awkward as hell. So awkward Bull was forced to reclaim his chin.

“I'm fine,” Bull said. “You can stop playing nursemaid.”

“You don't look fine. It's hard to tell with that ghastly complexion of yours, of course, but you look more ashen than usual. And clammy. Slightly greasy. A bit sunken around the eye.”

“Flatterer.”

“If you have some internal injury you're too much of a dolt to admit to, I will be positively livid.”

That might have more weight if Dorian didn't keep throwing that phrase around. So far, the things that made him 'positively livid' included Fereldans placing giant mabari statues everywhere, the kitchen's 'inability to serve anything in temperatures other than lukewarm', and the tavern running out of barrels of his favourite (cheap) wine. “I'm fine,” Bull insisted. “Hungry, though. Don't think I've eaten since before we fought that dragon.”

Dorian peered at him with narrowed eyes for a full minute before he relented. “Fine. I'll see if I can persuade the cook to part with a few of those vile cheese, bacon, and bread things you insist on eating.”

***

Fine. He was fine. Bull was getting sick of telling people that. Sera (“Well, stop being such a mardy-arse then.”, Blackwall (“Maybe you should take a few days off. Just till you're more yourself.”, like he knew anything about being yourself, Vivienne (“Dear, if the wind changes your face will stay like that.”), Cassandra (“Perhaps we should not spar for a few days.”), Solas (“A period of rest often helps us strike harder.”), Varric (“You keep brooding like this, Tiny, and I'm gonna have to think of a new nickname.”), and Dorian...

Dorian. They hadn't fucked since Bull hit his head. They hadn't been able to. Every night used to be explosive. Literally, that one time. Now it was Bull reeling at the touch of skin on skin. Bull's stomach roiling at any wet noise. Dorian muttering apology after apology into the back of Bull's neck while they lay together fully dressed. Dorian looking gloomy and drinking too much even by his standards because as much as Dorian worried about him, his self-esteem was a fragile thing. The rejection couldn't be helping. Dorian could go out and fuck whoever he liked – Bull was one more flinch away from suggesting it – and there was Bull, seemingly repulsed by his touch.

None of it made any fucking sense. It wasn't Dorian. Bull still felt that intense, blinding attraction to him, even if he was unable to act on it. And if it was about being taken down by the dragon, Bull wouldn't be able to fight. But he could still take enemies apart as easily as he ever could. He'd fight another dragon right now if he could find one. Blood and gore and the crack of bone didn't elicit the same instant, weak shying away that intimate touch did. And everyone else's fucking pity wasn't helping.

Everyone else's pity, come to think of it, except Cole's. Cole had been conspicuously absent from this whole concern-fest. And what the fuck was that about? If there was anyone who might be able to figure out this whole mess, it was him. Hell, Bull felt like a dumbass for not thinking of it sooner.

He only didn't run up the tavern's stairs because they weren't built for qunari. He'd fall right through them. It was time to put this shit to bed.

But Cole was nowhere to be found. Bull combed Skyhold but couldn't find hide nor hair of the squirrelly little bastard.

Fuck it. Fuck this. This wasn't him, and he didn't need a kid's help. He'd deal with this bullshit on his own.

***

Dorian looked sinfully good naked. Probably knew it too. Bull had witnessed his morning routine once, and he put a lot of effort into ensuring it. This whatever-it-was hadn't taken away Bull's appreciation for that, although Dorian would look better if he wasn't frowning so hard his moustache turned down at the corners. Bull rubbed his back. He used to arch into that like a spoiled cat, now all it did was smooth out the gooseflesh. Bull ignored that, and the way his heart was ramming against his ribcage like a – heh – like a bull in mating season. He tried to concentrate instead on Dorian nestled between his slightly-spread thighs. Dorian's hot breath across his stomach. 

“Are you sure about this?” Dorian said.

“Sure.” 

This was further than they'd gotten in days now. So far, so good. They were both naked and no one was freaking out. Flooding, the Ben-Hassrath called it. Bull had never truly been at their mercy but he heard things from others. Like the boy in his kibbutz who'd been marked for service in the Antaam until they discovered his phobia of blood. He was too talented a warrior to waste as a cleric. The reeducators did their thing and when he came back; no fear. Exposure, he'd said. Constant exposure, until it was accept it or break. Flooding. So apt. You either fought your way to the surface, or you drowned. And Dorian's mouth was a hell of a lot more pleasant to drown in than blood.

It had to work. They couldn't carry on like this; naked and frustrated, but both soft and stressed. Dorian shivered. He didn't usually feel the cold when they were in bed together.

“You're certain?” Dorian said. Now the fifth time he'd asked since he'd entered Bull's room. Bull had to give him credit, he kept thinking of new ways to phrase it.

“Hey, have you ever known me to turn down a blow job?”

Dorian didn't laugh, which was normal. He didn't groan or roll his eyes either, which was not. “If something happened...” he said, in that gravid way people had of saying happened when they didn't want to voice whatever happening they were getting at. And there weren't many options, considering the situation.

Iron Bull barked a laugh. He regretted it when Dorian's face fell, eyes widening like some sad Fereldan mutt. It hadn't sounded like a laugh. Hollow and grating, even to Bull's own ears.

“Look at me,” Bull said. “I'm a fucking Qunari. What do you think's gonna happen to me?”

“That's not how it works. As you well know.”

Bull faltered. They didn't talk about this stuff but they talked around it. Bull left a blank space that Dorian could fill in. Fighting the Vints had left too much seared onto the inside of his skull for him not to let some spill out. As you well know. Yeah, he did. It wasn't about who was weak or strong. It was about who was unlucky. Who outlived the rest of their squad, only to get thrown to the enemy soldiers for relief--

Bull didn't realise how hard he was breathing until Dorian was in his lap, with his arms around Bull's neck. “We don't have to do this,” he said, voice gentle.

“Careful, Vint,” Bull said, adding an extra growl to his voice to hide the tremble. “People might start to think you care about me.”

Dorian gave him a smirk that sat oddly on his worried face. “What a scandalous idea.”

When they kissed, Dorian usually complained about Bull's scratchy facial hair even though it wasn't uncommon for Bull to get a mouthful of moustache. This time Dorian accepted it without complaint. Weird that Bull missed the contrariness, even when Dorian's mouth lingered. He kissed Dorian again because that was the one thing that hadn't been spoiled by all this. One thing that didn't make Bull feel ridiculous. All the filthy sex he'd had and now he couldn't even touch or be touched? Maybe he should see a healer. Another healer. Get them to poke around in his brain, in case the first few healers had missed a brain injury that changed his behaviour. He knew a mercenary once who got a spear through his head. He'd been a genial guy until that point but after he survived that he got surly and aggressive. Like a whole different person.

And Bull should stop thinking about stuff like that because Dorian was bound to notice if he seemed off.

“I...” Dorian said. The sentence trailed off and Dorian didn't attempt to finish it. Varric could fill a book with everything left unsaid between them. There was only so vulnerable either of them were willing to be, and there was already far too much vulnerability here. “Shall we get on with this?” Dorian said instead of whatever it was going to be. Oddly businesslike for someone offering to suck him off.

Bull laughed, less forced this time. “See? You do care.”

“I'm doing it for the maids,” Dorian said. “Your serious face is beginning to scare them.”

Bull let Dorian ground him. He was in his own room, with Dorian. Not whatever place he went to when he freaked out. He drank in all the little details. Dorian's hair teased into that complicated style, pomade worked through it with a scent that was somehow masculine and floral all at once, although Bull resisted the urge to touch it. Mess it up in a way that that made Dorian make a noise like a cat when its fur was stroked the wrong way. The nerves jangling in Bull's stomach were irrational. They'd done this dozens of times before. And it should be familiar; the way Dorian give him a self-satisfied smirk because he knows just how good he was getting at this, the way Dorian's hands closed around the base of his cock – still soft, not responding to the touch – and the way Dorian's hands were unique, with their clipped and buffed nails, the skin icongruously soft where it wasn't calloused from holding a staff. But there was an echo. Smaller, rougher hands with ragged dirty nails. Bull's nerves ramped up and he tried to power through it. Mind over matter. 

Dorian arched his back and lifted his ass. That shamelessness was all Dorian's own, something carefully nurtured, coaxed through layers of self-hate about what he was, months after months of encouragement and reassurance that it was okay to want sex with other men. Okay to enjoy it the way Dorian did, okay to admit how much he wanted it. That intimacy had been hard-won and Bull didn't want to throw it away. All those admissions pulled from Dorian about how much he loved being full-up with Bull's cock, all that scorching-hot sex where Bull got to see that wild abandon and know Dorian wouldn't hate himself after... He could do this. For that. For Dorian. He was sure of it.

Until Dorian's mouth was on him, hot and eager.

The memory hit Bull like that dragon had, Dorian and the present falling away. Cole instead. Cole's hands and mouth and revulsion crawling up Bull's throat like a worm. He was only dimly aware of rolling off the bed. He curled in on himself with walls of panic and disgust closing around him on all sides. Dorian's panicked voice came from faraway, like Bull was underwater.

Cole.

There was no fucking way. No fucking way. Bull would never touch the kid like that. Found it fucking difficult to touch him even like a buddy, because Cole didn't react like a person would. Had never learned the social cues. And Bull had this vivid tactile memory of Cole... Bull flopped onto his side, all the strength leaving his body at once. He just managed to turn his head and threw up until there was nothing left. Not even bile. Just the leftover sting of it in his throat and mouth and guts. Dorian's hand was clinging to his. Bull clung back so hard the skin of Dorian's wrist blanched white. Bull could feel every delicate bone in his hand and released it, lest he break it like the fucking beast he was.

He tried to curl on his side but Dorian pulled his head into his lap. Dorian. Kneeling next to a disgusting mess just to comfort adding. Adding more pounds of guilt to an already too-heavy load. Dorian stroked Bull's horns and made soothing noises while Bull dry-heaved and was racked with full-body shivers. He was in no state to do anything to take the comfort. He tried, though. Tried to voice what had happened. Why Dorian should drop him. Get Commander Cullen. Get the guards. Lock him up. All that came out were a few glottal noises and groans.

And Bull just... Broke down. Started sobbing like he hadn't since he was a tiny kid, his tamassran gathering his whole body into her arms.

***

He must have exhausted himself because the next thing he knew he woke up in the dark. The room had been cleaned up and Bull had been put to bed with Dorian. Bull had no idea how Dorian had managed to pull him onto the bed but his face was stuck to Dorian's chest with dried tears. Bull would be embarrassed about that if he had any room left for it with all the disgust filling him from head to toe. The position must have been hellishly uncomfortable for Dorian with the horns and Bull's weight on top of him, but he made a small growly noise when Bull tried to pull out of his grip. Bull wriggled out of it anyway and pushed a pillow between Dorian's arms.

Bull's good eye felt like sand had been poured into it from all the crying, the socket ached, the pulp under the lid of his missing eye hot and itchy. Humiliatingly, he teared up again looking at Dorian cuddling his pillow. Dorian always tried to hide his goodness under faux-arrogance and bluster. But there was no way he'd want anything to do with Bull when he found out exactly what Bull was.

Better Bull just left. Found a Red Templar or Venatori stronghold somewhere and took down as many of them as he could before he succumbed.

Cole was on the battlements, dangling his legs over them. Bull paused when he saw him. How did you even start apologising for something like that? Cole stared down at Skyhold's courtyard below, the brim of his hat covering everything but his chin.

“It wasn't you, the Iron Bull,” he said. “It was me.”

“Bullshit.” That had to be bullshit. Cole didn't want sex, if he even understood what it was. That incident with Candy proved that. He hadn't even taken a lapdance, and if he wasn't into girls, he'd had plenty of opportunity there too. The stable boy was always staring at him, now he could be seen. There was no way Cole had decided to deep-throat a Qunari just for the hell of it. This was just that helping thing he did. He was just trying to make Bull feel better about it, although Bull was fucked if he knew why.

“You had a concussion, thoughts flying off like flocks of birds, too fast to catch. You couldn't fight back. I hurt you.”

“There's no fucking way that's what happened, kid.” A surge of exhausted nausea made Bull's eyes roll back in his head. Kid. He had done that to a kid. What had happened was what he always knew would happen. Without the Qun, he'd committed an act so unspeakably savage even his own brain had tried to hide it from him. Sure, he'd never felt any attraction to Cole but savages didn't think about that. Cole would make an easy target. Taking advantage, forcing him like that, was exactly the kind of thing a fucking animal would do.

“You don't believe me but you want it to be true. If you believe me, you're not the monster, I am.”

Bull took a couple of steps closer. Cole's voice was unnerving because of how flat it was. Usually emotion spilled into every word, pulled from the minds of everyone around him. “Well, I don't believe you're a monster, kid. So why the fuck would you do something like that?”

Cole had been avoiding eye contact anyway but this time he actively turned his head away. “I don't know.”

Thinking about... that... made Bull want to throw up again. Even if he didn't have anything left. Dry-heave until he pulled a muscle in his stomach, maybe. But details kept creeping into his conscious. Like the Inquisitor's too soft bed and a nausea less intense than he felt now. Cole choking and teary-eyed. Matching the story he was telling now in some ways but not others. In his memory, Cole hadn't been enjoying himself... and neither had Bull. Nothing like a savage Tal-Vashoth fucking the first thing he could find. Bull concentrated on the horrible memory, eking out the details. Horror mixing with reluctant physical enjoyment. Trying to get Cole to stop but being too weak to even push him off.... Which meant Cole was probably telling the truth about it being during his concussion.

“Relief. I'm not a savage. I never gave in.”

Bull wished Cole wasn't right about the relief. What kind of fucked-up mess was relieved that they'd been the victim, just because it at least meant he didn't need to be put down. “Kid, what's going on?”

“I hurt you. You should stop me.”

There was more to it. Cole hadn't been a willing participant either. Not if Bull's memory was right. “Who made you do that, kid?”

“No one!” Too high, too panicked. Exactly the kind of tone someone would use after they'd been warned don't tell anyone, or else. Like Gatt. Tiny Gatt. Small even for an elf from malnourishment. Bruises on his hips. Blood where no kid should ever have to think about. Master said I should say I fell. Bull had ripped 'Master' apart with his bare hands. Tore him down so fast some of his organs had still been pulsing when Bull pulled him open.

Sometimes keeping his savagery in check wasn't an option. But anger wouldn't help right now. Cole needed his support, not his bloodlust. Because killing the abuser didn't magically fix the victim. Gatt's anger broiled under the surface constantly, nearly got him re-educated a few times, channelled into unhealthy and self-destructive urges. Not that killing this fucker wouldn't be a good start.

“Cole, if someone's making you--”

“No. Telling doesn't help. I hurt you. I did. And you have to kill me. You have to make me stop.”

Bull was chilled by the conviction in his voice. “Shit, kid. I'm not going to kill you.” The thought of Cole sucking him off made Bull want to rip his own skin off, bathe in pure burning lye, and never touch anyone or be touched ever again, but if Cole had been forced to do it... The thought was too big. Too sick. He thought he'd seen every kind of cruelty in his life but this was a new level of sickness. “Not if you didn't have a choice.”

Cole slumped forward. Slowly. So gently Bull didn't realise he was throwing himself off the battlements until he was already toppling. Bull thanked every god in Thedas for his reflexes. He caught the back of Cole's shirt in both hands. Cole dangled from them, inert. Like the corpses hanging from the nooses in Val Royeaux.

Bull heaved him back over the battlements. Cole felt cold in his hands. Even colder than the stone underneath them, a cold like that Winter's Grasp spell that mages liked to throw. It was only for a moment but the shadows under his hat made him look gaunt and stringy, falling into the too-familiar shapes of a despair demon.

“I don't think it will be despair,” Cole said. “Wisdom becomes pride. Justice becomes rage. I would become cruelty. What I did to you was cruel.”

Bull kept hold of Cole just in case he jumped again. He thought about hugging him but didn't. He hated his own reluctance. The kid obviously needed comfort right now, but Bull didn't have a weapon on him, and Cole was unnaturally cold. Seemed to grow colder by the second.

“You're afraid, the Iron Bull.”

“Yeah.” No use hiding it from Cole. If he did become a demon, one that understood as much as Cole now did about about the world... “But that's not gonna happen. You didn't hurt me. Someone used you. That's not your fault.”

“No.” Cole wriggled, trying to get free. Bull held on tighter. No way he was letting Cole go in case he tried to throw himself off the roof again. But Cole was a rogue and he twisted, limbs and back bending in unlikely ways, until he broke free. “You can't know. Forget. Forget.”

Bull didn't. Cole's wiggy spirit magic or whatever it was twisted around in Bull's mind like Cole had in Bull's arms, but none of his memories went anywhere. If anything, the memory solidified into horrific, crystal-clear detail. Cole's gag reflex firing violently around his cock. Cole's hot tears splashing on his belly. Made Bull want to dig it out with his knife and maybe cut his cock off too.

Cole must have lifted that straight from Bull's head because he went feral and wild-eyed, coiled and sprang, with a knife ready so fast Bull barely processed him drawing it. Bull caught both of Cole's hands and twisted Cole's arms just enough to make him drop the knife and stay still.

“Cut the memory out,” Cole said, plaintively. Voice gruff, imitating Bull's own. “Leave nothing but a scar behind.”

“It doesn't work like that, kid,” Bull said. Someone had to explain the difference between idle thoughts and sincere ones to Cole, before someone got hurt. Someone better with words. People were prone to erratic behaviour in situations like this, Bull could only imagine the kind of havoc a traumatised spirit could wreak. “You can't take out a memory without taking other stuff too.” Trepanning. Apple-coring. Ways humans had devised to let the madness leak out of a person like the water in an overfull tub. But it didn't work, they just lost the whole person. The first time Bull had discovered the practice, he'd thought of saarebas and felt like a bad Qunari.

“You have to forget, even if I can't make you.”

There was a weird intensity to the words. Cole always meant far more than he said. Solas had a knack for understanding him that Bull just didn't despite years of Ben-Hassrath training in picking up hidden messages.

“Not Solas,” Cole said, twisting in Bull's grip but not managing to escape this time. “No one else can know. You can't know.”

Bull filled up with anger so fast it nearly blew the top of his head clean off. That was good. Better than the hopelessness and recrimation of before. “Cole. It's gonna be all right.”

“No. It won't be all right. It's never all right. If he finds out you know, he'll hurt Dorian.”

That sentence hit Bull like a kick to the throat. “He won't be able to hurt anyone when I'm finished with him.”

“That horned idiot thinks he can protect him, but I'll rip off those fancy robes. Fists to bruise his pretty face. Fists to bruise his insides. Make him burn like rejection. Like his sneering superiority. Leave him cold and spoiled and used, so he knows exactly what he is. Please, the Iron Bull. We have to pretend you don't know or he'll find a way to hurt Dorian. The same way he found a way to hurt you.”

Acid rose in the back of Bull's throat at the graphic fantasy. Sure, sometimes he gave Dorian pain, when he asked for it, but it was never about really hurting Dorian. “I'm supposed to just let this fucking asshole--” there wasn't a strong enough word for what he was “--keep doing whatever he likes to you?”

“Yes,” Cole said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “I exist to stop people being hurt. This is the only way I can.”

“Kid, I'm not gonna let you--”

“You'll do it to save Dorian,” Cole said. Because, of course he knew. Cole actually could read minds, not just expressions and mannerisms. He disappeared in that creepy black smoke before Bull could respond. 

Bull slunk back to his room. He pulled Dorian into the tightest hug he could manage without waking him and tried to think of a memory from Seheron that would explain that episode to Dorian's satisfaction. He had plenty to choose from. Lucky him.


	4. Bright and Glittering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic rape (Lavellan/Cole and Lavellan/Dorian), suicidal attempt, suicidal ideation, and torture.

Seeing Cole and Sera conversing was odd enough in itself, but the way it didn't look remotely antagonistic was what truly gave Dorian pause. Cole was sitting with his knees folded into his chest, Sera mirroring his posture. They both looked so utterly miserable that Dorian was moved to go over to them. 

“Something the matter?” he asked.

Sera jumped to her feet like she'd been caught doing something unspeakable. “None of your business, is it?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

Sera blew a raspberry at him, which was about as eloquent a response as he'd expected, and then she ended the conversation by flipping him the finger as she scurried down the stairs. Dorian turned his attention to the more agreeable of the two. Cole tugged his hat down over his face with both hands.

“I hope Sera isn't upsetting you,” Dorian said.

“No. She wants to help.”

Dorian made to sit down beside Cole, but thought better of it after noticing how dusty the floor was. He settled for hovering near him. Poor Cole had been rather despondent lately but if Sera was moved to help him then it may be worse than Dorian had originally thought. He'd assumed it was just a side effect of his becoming more a human – a fact that both Solas and Varric had blithely reported as if being human was a matter of choice. Perhaps it was for Cole, an exception to so many long-established magical rules. Whatever Cole actually was, he looked barely nineteen and teenagers tended to be sullen. There didn't have to be anything more to it than that.

Cole drew his hat down further.

“May I speak to Cole please?” Dorian asked the hat. Honestly, this wasn't disproving his moody teenager theory. This was the Cole-equivalent of running to his room and slamming the door; a favoured tactic of much younger Dorian's when he didn't get his own way.

Cole lifted the hat and set it on his knees. Ah, so that was what it was about. Someone had cut his hair. It was short but not too short, and the gossamer-thin strands curled in a way not often seen on boys his age. Dorian hadn't had such a head of glorious curls since he was a toddler. Truth be told, it was a vast improvement over the shaggy mess that had adorned Cole's head before.

“Fetching,” Dorian said. “I'm sure all the tavern girls will be making eyes at you.”

“No.” It was said with such revulsion, it changed the entire tone of the encounter. Set Dorian's mind racing. Of course, Sera would hardly willingly comfort Cole over a haircut. And Bull had seemed overprotective of Cole lately in and out of battle, which Dorian had put down to Bull being Bull.

“Is...” Dorian was very much not equipped for this sort of thing. He'd proved as much with Bull. Able only to be there. As much use as a decorative vase. Still, he persisted. “Is something the matter?”

“Ill.”

Dorian waited, expecting something more, but nothing was forthcoming. And here he'd thought Cole was incapable of clear and succinct communication. “You're ill? What is it? Your stomach? Your head? Something else?”

“Yes.”

Ah, there was the Cole they all knew and loved. “Which? Or all three?”

“Bull pours secrets into your ear, your guts twisting like a knife wound at all that depravity. Raw, rended, raped bodies, too much to take but Bull took it all. Amatus, oh amatus–”

“I asked you to stop that.” Dorian's stomach twisted again. Bull's low voice shook when he recited those tales, Dorian trying to fit as much of him as he could in his arms. A moment of intimacy that Cole wasn't welcome to intrude upon. 

“--peel back the layers and Bull is soft inside. Burst like an egg yolk and all his failures bleed into the cracks and I'm not enough. I can't help. Torrent washes you away. A ventured hand. A kiss between the horns. Not enough. I'm never enough.”

“Cole!” Dorian's fists had balled without him realising. Cole had to know how that resonated, said with such uncharacteristic spite. Each word bit into Dorian's brain.

“Your father made you brave but not strong. You aren't strong enough to carry your own burdens. You can't carry his as well.”

“What on earth has gotten into you?”

Cole shoved his head back on his head. “I want you to leave.”

“That would have sufficed,” Dorian snapped, and left as Cole wished.

***

Dorian was still shaking with rage when he returned to the library. Oh, he could have retaliated with barbed words of his own, but Cole made a poor target for that sort of thing. Besides, how would it look? The villainous Tevinter “magister” shouting at a shrinking, curly-haired boy. Mother Giselle would have a field day. Possibly a fête. What was most infuriating was that Cole's machinations were laughably transparent. He'd wanted Dorian to leave, so he'd made it uncomfortable to stay. The whole ploy was obvious now that the initial outrage had dimmed. Sera too, had shaken him off. Dorian would doubt his own intelligence if that wasn't madness.

And Lavellan was coming to visit him with a pile of musty old books. Another glorious day in the life of Dorian Pavus.

“I found these in an old Tevinter laboratory,” Lavellan said. “Some of it might be of interest.”

“No, thank you,” Dorian said as icily as he could. The knowledge in those books might have piqued his interest if someone other than Lavellan was offering them. He would have no debts, imagined or otherwise. “I've enough useless tat to last me a lifetime.”

Lavellan found that amusing for some reason. He dumped the books on the nearest table. They sent up a little dust cloud. “I'll leave them here then, Hellisma or the archivist will find some use for them if you don't.”

At least someone was in a good mood. Lavellan usually sniped right back. Apparently it was a day for acting out of character. The next thing he knew Sera would turn up wanting to discuss magical theory in full and coherent sentences, Vivienne would bedeck herself in plaidweave, and Bull would start wearing a shirt.

Actually, the last may not be so unlikely. Bull had taken to covering himself with the sheets lately, forming a barrier between his skin and Dorian's touch. Logically, Dorian knew that it wasn't personal, but that didn't mean it didn't sting. The small, selfish part of himself that pined for Bull's adoration and attention raged against the walls of his compassion. And Bull knew, of course, had told him that if he needed sex he could get it elsewhere. Encouraged it, even. In such a manner – genuine and the Maker-forsaken fool wouldn't actually be jealous – that Dorian could never go through with it. What was his petty need to be looked at and touched compared to what Bull was going through? 

Dorian sighed and tried to find a book to get lost in that he hadn't read a thousand times, and realised that Lavellan hadn't left. He was leaning against the banister. Staring.

“Enjoying the view?” Dorian snapped.

“Always,” Lavellan said with a half smile that Dorian couldn't believe he'd once found charming. “You're always shivering, do you realise that? There's a warm bath and a truly decadent bed in my quarters if you'd like some relief from the cold.”

This again? Dorian thought he'd made it thoroughly clear that he wasn't interested in anything Lavellan had to offer. He was only glad he'd seen past Lavellan's superficial charm before he'd done something truly stupid. “I'd prefer to stay away from your quarters, if it's all the same.”

“If you'd rather be cold,” Lavellan's smile was fixed in place but his eyes flashed with anger. “And alone.”

“Whatever makes you think I'll be alone?”

“Ah yes, how is Bull these days? I heard he's been off-colour since his concussion.”

Dorian only stopped himself from throwing a fireball at Lavellan because it would be a shame for innocent books to be caught in the conflagration. How could Lavellan possibly know? And he was right... all of Bull's new issues coincided with the concussion. Lavellan's tone suggested he knew a great deal more than that Bull had been unwell. Cole. Of course. One unscrupulous man and one mind-reader with no sense of privacy. Lavellan must have been positively overjoyed when they picked Cole up.

“You need someone who can satisfy all of your needs,” Lavellan said. So insiduous. He'd managed to creep closer to Dorian, close enough for Dorian to get a long look at the naked lust on his face.

It was so beyond the pale, so very illogical, that Dorian had to laugh. Oh yes, if Bull wasn't fucking him, then he'd better hop onto the next taker. The laugh made the smile slip from Lavellan's face. The expression that it left in its wake made Dorian want to gouge out Lavellan's eyes. The only time he'd felt more dehumanised was when he learned of his father's ritual.

“I would give you luxury and status,” Lavellan said.

“It isn't about what I gain.” But of course Lavellan didn't understand that. “And my answer isn't going to change.”

“Then remember what I offered,”

Dorian would have mocked him for being so ominous if his heart wasn't racing.

***

Dorian did something he thought he'd never do: he visited Sera. She'd made herself a colourful little boudoir in the herald's rest that was so bloody twee it made his teeth ache. And his eyeballs. Someone needed to introduce her to neutrals and the joys of a matching palette.

“What you doing up here, pube face?” Sera said, in her charming way.

“I'm intrigued by your apparent friendship with Cole.”

There was a brief pause, presumably for her to work out the longer words. “I'm not his – its – his friend. I just need some sleep.”

“Sera, my dear, you're making less sense than usual.”

Sera gave a dramatic groan. “What? Can't work it out with all your wordy... words. Shut up. Just say what you mean without trying to be clever about it.”

“Very well. Cole acted strangely earlier. I want to know why you, of all people, appear to be concerned.”

“He's been keeping me up.”

“Ah yes, with his wild parties and rambunctious dancing.”

“You what? No need to be sarcy about it. Crying. Proper crying. Like a cat that lost its litter. I just want him to shut up for one night.”

Sera was a poor liar considering her proclivities. But the crying... “Did he tell you what was wrong?”

“Good luck getting a straight answer from that thing. Why are you asking me anyway? Your bit's talked to him more than I have.”

“My... bit?”

“Bull,” she said, rolling her eyes at Dorian as if not being understand her made him the simpleton. “Or do you not know you're a couple? Because everyone else does.”

Dorian didn't know what to protest first. Bull was not a 'bit', nor were they a couple, and Bull certainly hadn't been having clandestine meetings with Cole. So he settled for not protesting at all, and concentrating on the matter at hand. “Did Cole say anything at all? Anything to indicate what might be wrong?”

“That head bollocks. All fancy but none of it made sense. But...” Sera looked sad. Not angry, as he was used to seeing, but genuinely hurt. “The kitchen girl noticed bruises on his neck, and I looked and they're not bruises. Lovebites.”

Vasta kaffas. “I...” Dorian had the strangest sense of deja vu, that didn't entirely vanish as he tried to process the information. The way Cole had been so drawn into himself and avoidant lately. The way he'd flinched at the thought of the tavern girls taking interest. And Dorian had thought it was over a haircut, like everyone was as vain as he was. “I'll talk to him.”

“Good luck.” She had probably meant for that to sound sarcastic, but it didn't.

***

The mattress dipped under Cole's added weight, and in the darkness Lavellan fancied the dagger made a sound. Subtle as a rustle of leaves. Lavellan had so many dreams that started this way that at first he didn't think he was awake. But the knife was too cold when it pressed underneath his chin. The missed-a-stair-tread lurch in his stomach too jolting. Cole's ragged breath too loud in his ears. His hand too shaky. It was sometimes easy to forget what Cole was, he played his part so well. Easy to forget that he was a thing pretending to be human. The look in his eyes now was a stark reminder. Vicious, like a bronto when it charged. His arm trembled, yes, but only with the effort of it. Lavellan's binding ritual shielded him likes a suit of armour, but Cole looked determined to find the chink.

Lavellan hit him with a mind blast that sent him sprawling off the bed, dagger clattering out of his hand. His hat fell off in the tumble.“What terrible manners,” Lavellan said. “Attempting to murder me with the daggers I gave you.”

Cole didn't move to retaliate. He just picked himself up and sat on his haunches rocking back and forth, one hand pulling hard at his hair. “I heard – I saw – You said you wouldn't hurt Dorian if I didn't tell but you'll hurt him anyway. I hurt him to stop him knowing and it didn't matter.”

Lavellan caressed the back of Cole's neck. Bare now. His hair was baby-soft and had sprung into the most adorable curls when Lavellan had cut it. If they could only shift the dark circles under his eyes, he'd look much more like the handsome boy he was. Lavellan pushed Cole's clawing hand away to run his fingers over Cole's scalp. Cole shuddered openly at the touch.

“They say the apostate who blew up Kirkwall's chantry was possessed by a spirit,” Lavellan said. He rolled Cole's jacket down his shoulders. He was getting even thinner, the fine bones of his collarbone and shoulders more visible. Cole began to undress the rest of the way. “A spirit of justice that went mad when it realised the world wasn't just. You spirits are made out of fairytales. In the real world, bad things happen for no reason at all. And they'll keep happening with or without your intervention.”

“I'll stop you,” Cole said, fully nude now. All bird-bones and sharp ribs with muscles clinging to him like dying vines. If he got any thinner those would waste away too. I'll stop you, he said but he bent over the bed as he always did.

Lavellan entered him in one dry thrust, with a bitter laugh that drowned out Cole's yowl. It hurt them both, the tightness nipping at Lavellan's cock, but that was all right. Cole needed a reminder of his place. He'd enjoyed gentle touches until now, and he needed to know that could change. Cole gripped the sheets in both hands, trying to drag himself off Lavellan's cock. Lavellan seized Cole's hips and snapped his own, piercing into Cole with brutal smacking thrusts.

Cole screamed. Thrashed about like a wild animal in a trap. Lavellan tightened his grip and pulled Cole into each thrust until something ripped, and it was too tacky with blood for him to move.

There was less blood than Lavellan expected when he carefully slid out. Only a couple of veins creeping up his cock. Cole lay limp, like a nug in a wolf's jaws. Shivering from head-to-toe. Lavellan grabbed some oil, and slicked himself first, then poured it between Cole's arse cheeks. Cole barely flinched until he shoved three fingers inside him. Cole made a high whine that turned into a high scream when Lavellan took him again with his oiled cock. Cole scrabbled for purchase on Lavellan's sheets, whimpering and fighting every thrust. Then screamed again, screamed and screamed, so much that Lavellan had to cover his mouth until he learned to be quiet. Lavellan marked every inch of his pale neck and shoulders with bruises and bites as he thrust and thrust, chasing his own release, Cole's screams turning to low moans under his hand.

The last thrust into Cole's grasping body was staggeringly pleasurable. A pleasure banked by seeing his come tinged pink with Cole's blood. He flipped Cole over, to find his face bleeding too. He'd bitten through his bottom lip. He bit Lavellan too when he tried to clean him off, turned insensible, eyes rolling around in his head. Now there was even more blood, a steady trickle from the shallow wounds around his hole where the muscle had torn. And he was whiter than usual where he wasn't bleeding. Lavellan would perhaps feel more sympathy if Cole hadn't tried to murder him.

Still, he wasn't sure what would happen if Cole died from the wounds, or if he even could. So Lavellan turned Cole's limp body back over and pushed the neck of a healing potion inside him. He upended it to empty it. Cole seethed and hissed through the process, and whined pathetically when Lavellan spread the mixture that leaked over his hole with his fingers. He only quietened when he passed out in a fit of shock or exhaustion.

Lavellan climbed onto the bloody sheets and held Cole as he lurched back awake, whispering soothing words until he fell asleep. The bleeding had stopped. Cole was as good as new.

***

A lie-in was one of the few indulgences Lavellan allowed himself. In-between saving the world, he could hardly be begrudged a few hours of sleep. It had been more pleasant lately, with Cole in his arms whenever he woke. He was gentle with Cole usually, when he took his arse or mouth, and Cole took it with only the mildest of trembles and chokes. Lavellan would prefer enthusiasm to Cole's dead-eyed acceptance, of course, but it scratched the itch. And though Cole was little more than pliant when Lavellan fucked him, he generally accepted the comfort afterward. Clung to Lavellan, and fell asleep on his chest when Lavellan stroked his hair. Perhaps now last night's unpleasantness was over, they could go back to that.

Except Lavellan woke with the dawn, expecting a sleepy warm body against him. Instead, Cole was ice cold. His lips were coated white. Had he passed out again since Lavellan fell asleep? Lavellan shook Cole and slapped his face, panic rising when Cole didn't respond, head lolling on his shoulders. Lavellan ripped off the covers and found a pool of dried blood on the mattress and covering Cole.

For a terrifying moment, Lavellan though Cole had died during the night but he was breathing. Feebly, but breathing nonetheless. Not dead, but dying.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Lavellan forced himself to think like in the field, tamping down his panic to do what needed to be done. He dressed Cole first, then tore his clothes the way a thug who'd cornered Cole might. The bedclothes had to be destroyed too. A small fire spell contained in a barrier took care of those. He carried Cole down the stairs, alarmed at how light he was. Perhaps he should force Cole to eat. The blood loss may not have affected him so badly if there was more of him. Skyhold was thankfully empty, everyone who might have encountered him coming out of his quarters still asleep. Lavellan managed to get Cole to the infirmary without any awkward questions, just a few stares from the soldiers in the main yard.

A few distressed shouts as he approached roused the surgeon. “Something's wrong,” he said, not bothering to conceal the panic in his voice.

The surgeon openly winced at the state of Cole. What had happened to him must have been blatantly obvious, with his shirt ripped open to his ribs, bite marks on his shoulders and neck, the torn seat of his trousers and sickening mixture of dried blood and spunk coating his skin. But the surgeon was a professional, she hid her horror behind a businesslike frown almost immediately. Took Cole from him.

She bade Lavellan to wait outside. It would be messy, she said, as the infirmary woke up around her. Runners went running. Senior mages were summoned.

Lavellan did as asked. He'd no desire to see Cole cut open and sewn back together. He supposed he should thank the creators that Cole was likely more resilient than a normal boy. A death would have been much harder to explain... Lavellan must have nodded off against the infirmary wall because he was roused by the surgeon.

“He's alive,” she said. “But it was a near thing. He certainly won't be adventuring for a couple of months. At the least.” She crouched down to be at Lavellan's level, and her expression said she wished she could be anywhere else. “There's something you should know.”

They had no idea, did they? They all needed them to be this shining beacon of hope. A perfect chosen one for a god he didn't even believe in. “What happened?”

“He had a perforated lower intestine as well as some scarring. Based on that, and the state you found him in... I'm sorry, Inquisitor. The boy was violated, and brutally too.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“There's no doubt about it, I'm afraid. The injuries we saw – all I'll say is it was clear he was trying to get away.” She looked so, so sad. “The best thing we can for him now is give him time to heal.”

Lavellan took a few minutes to compose himself. The surgeon looked like she might burst into tears. “I'd prefer news of this didn't spread around Skyhold,” he said, eventually. “And I'm sure Cole would prefer that too.”

“Understood, herald. I'll make sure there's no gossip. And I'll send a runner as soon as he wakes up.”

“Thank you.”

“And my advice? Get some rest yourself. You're no good to him if you're so worn out you're sleeping against a wall.” She stood up but hesitated to leave. “And when you find the bastard who did this, give me a good seat to watch his head roll.”

***

Talking to Cole proved to be harder than it sounded. He hadn't been in any of his usual haunts for the last few days, nor had anyone seen him around. He hadn't been this elusive since people couldn't remember him. It was only the muttering of a couple of Chantry sisters that put Dorian onto his trail.

That boy is strange. Knew about my brother without me even saying.

Anyone would be strange after what happened.

Sh. The Herald said we're not to talk about it.

Dorian burst into the infirmary with a belly full of dread. A dread which only mounted as he found Cole lying on one of the beds, listless and hatless, curled up on his side. His eyes widened when he saw Dorian and he hid under the covers.

“Cole?” Dorian said as he approached the small, tucked-up mound under the sheets. “What happened?”

“Injured,” Cole said after too many many beats. “In battle.”

That was such an obvious lie it set Dorian's heart beating a little faster, all his suspicions suddenly solidifying into one terrifying realisation. I looked and they're not bruises. As damning as it had sounded, Dorian was still harbouring the hope that Cole had merely found himself a curious boy or girl to enjoy his new human body with. The Herald said we're not to talk about it. Dorian wanted to vomit.

“Cole–”

“You're wrong, Dorian. It's a stomach ache.”

Dorian peeled back the covers to confirm that Cole was very much worse off than having a bit of a bad tummy. He looked like there was no blood left in his body, and was wearing oversized clothes that weren't his own. Of course. Of course. Dorian should have known Lavellan would go after Cole. He'd been so affronted when Dorian rebuffed him. But Cole was odd and isolated, the perfect opportunity for an animal like Lavellan.

And first Dorian was going to retrieve Cole's hat, and then he was going to make sure Lavellan had nothing left with which to abuse Cole.

“No.” Cole's desperate shriek roused the whole damned infirmary. Patients sat up in their beds. The Chantry sisters tutted. The healers glared at Dorian. “Don't, Dorian.” Cole had to look so pitiful. He shifted into a sitting position, wincing all the way. His shirt rode up enough to reveal a ghastly scar across his mid-section. “Please don't, Dorian.” The poor thing could barely move. “I don't want you to go.”

Dorian sighed and pulled up a chair. He should be ashamed of himself: his first thought should have been to comfort Cole, not to avenge him. The anger still simmered quietly but there'd be plenty of time for that. “Of course, Cole. What do you need?”

“I need you to stay away from him. And forget.”

“I... can't promise that.” Even if the circumstances were different, Corypheus remained at large. And forgetting simply wasn't possible. “Something has to be done.”

“It can't be. Every time anyone tries to do something, it gets worse.”

“Every time?”

“You tried. The Iron Bull tried. And the Iron Bull got hurt, and I had to make you both forget, and now I can't anymore.” Cole confessed in a rush, falling off the bed and into Dorian's lap, clutching at the buckles on his chest. “Then pain, blocking out everything else, scouring my insides– I can't. I can't. Please, Dorian. I have to help or other things edge out too. I don't want to be a demon but it's easier every day. Spreading. Growing. Festering. Twist their thoughts until I make them snap.”

“Being angry about this doesn't make you a demon.”

“A human wouldn't be a demon, but I am a thing.”

“Cole...” It came out choked, and whatever sentence he'd meant to say withered into nothing. As thoroughly useless as ever. Did Cole honestly believe he was a thing? How far had Lavellan's abuse gone that he did? Dorian swallowed and tried again. “You're no demon.”

“Remember,” Cole said. His face... changed. The features were still the same but somehow sharper, more attractive, lips peeled back in a most un-Cole-like smile.

There was deja vu and then it was more. Like being hit with a templar's smite. A memory klaxon-loud and inferno-bright. Of discovering what had happened to Cole. Of a frenzied Cole making him forget between sobbing apologies. And then it was a memory that had never been part of him, Bull trying to push Cole from him, fuzzy-headed and uncoordinated, Lavellan's instructions echoing in the background. The memories rolled over his inner eye, awful, sickening memories. So many of Cole's, choking down Lavellan's cock, Bull trying to console Cole and himself... And stopped.

Dorian was astounded he'd kept his arse in the chair rather than toppling to the floor. Bull. By the Maker, and Lavellan still had the gall to look Dorian in the eye? To invite him to his bed? After what he'd done to poor Cole. After he'd broken Bull like that.

“That... that was not your fault,” Dorian said. “Being a victim to his machinations makes you just that. A victim.”

Cole looked terrible but least he looked like himself. “You all want– you all need to believe I'm human and harmless but I'm not. Let me protect you, Dorian, or I won't be me.”

This, after those memories, was too much. Bull had thrown himself into danger to protect Dorian too. Everybody wanted to protect him. “I don't need to be protected, Cole.”

“You think it's because we think you're weak but it's not. We've already failed so much. We can't fail you too.”

They thought they'd failed him? Cole had been ripped apart and sewn back together, Bull's sense of self had been shattered, and they thought they'd failed him. “It won't be your failing. It never was.”

Cole reeled back from him and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. At first Dorian thought it was a reaction to his words, then Lavellan's voice made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“You have a visitor, I see.”

At least Dorian didn't have to hide his disgust. Lavellan was used to seeing that. To his dismay, Lavellan pulled up a chair and sat right beside him. “Don't any other duties require your attention, inquisitor?”

“Nothing more important than Cole.”

Snakes weren't regarded so suspiciously in Tevinter as in the south but Lavellan adequately demonstrated the fear of them. Something that lurked unseen in long grass, waiting to strike. “Of course. Who knows what could happen if you let him out of your sight?”

Cole blanched and Lavellan's eyes narrowed. The remark had been too pointed, but how dare Lavellan act as if he were simply visiting an ailing friend.

“How are you feeling?” Lavellan asked Cole, brushing Dorian aside. Lavellan's deception was so well-practised that he sounded genuinely concerned. 

“Better,” Cole said, so pale and frail, looking utterly miserable. “Dorian came to help but I don't need him. Right, Dorian?”

“Nonsense,” Dorian said. “I thought, if Cole's poorly, how can I make him feel better? And, of course, the answer was obvious. The gift of my presence.”

“You two are certainly quite a sight together,” Lavellan said.

The implications of that made Dorian's stomach roil. Cole drew the blankets tighter around himself, avoiding Dorian's gaze. It wouldn't come to that. Dorian would go back to Tevinter and marry every woman in the magisterium before Cole would have anything to fear from him. He tried to promise it with his mind, but Cole either didn't pick up on it or didn't believe it. He looked more miserable than ever.

“The surgeon said that I shouldn't do anything strenuous for two months,” Cole said, ostensibly to Lavellan but the stress on the last two syllables made Dorian pay attention. Message received. Two months.

“We'll manage,” Lavellan said. Genially, like he hadn't been the one to put Cole in this state. “I'll take Varric or Sera along if I need a rogue.”

The two of them would happily kill Lavellan if they knew the truth. Two months. Would Cole truly be safe during that time? 

“I'll try to heal faster,” Cole said. “But my body does what it wants now.”

“Just get better,” Lavellan said. “Don't push yourself. An injury like this could happen to anyone. Look at Bull.”

It was meant to rile him, so Dorian kept his expression neutral, and tried to ignore the hitch in Cole's breath. “It was only a concussion,” Dorian said. “Hardly worthy of such concern.”

“He was lucky. Another slip up like that and he'll end up dead.”

Cole whimpered, and shrank away when it drew both Dorian and Lavellan's attention. “I can...” Cole's gaze darted between Dorian and Lavellan, chest jumping like he had hiccups. “I can do my duties if I'm careful.”

Maker, why? His duties... If Dorian didn't already have several reasons to revile Lavellan, that would be the last straw. Cole's duties had almost killed him. The mere idea of Lavellan touching him with such injuries made Dorian want to murder Lavellan right there and then, damn the rifts, damn Corypheus, and damn the whole world.

Lavellan slid his hand along the inside of Dorian's thigh. “I'm sure that won't be necessary.”

“Take your filthy hand off me,” Dorian growled. “Before I remove it permanently.”

Lavellan's grip tightened for a moment before he dropped his hand. Two months. Two months. Cole would be – hopefully, please let him be – safe. And Lavellan would be on the prowl. “Easy, Dorian,” Lavellan said. “Just trying to comfort a friend.”

“You are no friend of mine.”

“Don't fight,” Cole said, and he sounded so frightened Dorian had to relent.

It was no fun at all watching Lavellan fuss over Cole while Cole miserably agreed with everything he said, but Dorian put up with it. The alternative was leaving Cole alone with him. Some of the Chantry sisters even smiled at Lavellan. They didn't have a clue, did they? All they saw was Lavellan being there for one of his beloved inner circle. Then again, who did have a clue? The rest of the inner circle weren't as adoring as the rest of Thedas, certainly, but none of them had suspected how rotten Lavellan truly was. How could they? Who would admit to themselves exactly what they'd allied with?

Well, if Lavellan thought he could frighten Dorian into submission with veiled threats he was dead wrong. Cole looked up at Dorian sharply, eyes wide and luminescent as the moon. For goodness' sake, why must he constantly look like a stray puppy? He clutched Dorian's hand the moment Lavellan was called away on inquisition business.

“Don't,” he said, clinging so tightly the bones in Dorian's hand ground together.

“He has to be dealt with.” Dorian tried to shake off Cole's hand but he only grabbed on to the other every time Dorian managed to escape. “Really, Cole, I'm going to need my hands back.”

“If you go to him he'll hurt you.”

“He'll certainly try.”

Dorian freed both hands only to have Cole grab onto his midriff and cling. If Dorian wanted to go anywhere, he'd be forced to carry Cole.

“You think he can't hurt you but he can. You think he won't really kill the Iron Bull but he will. And it will be your fault.”

Dorian's stomach had already bottomed out at 'kill the Iron Bull', so it couldn't get any lower when 'it will be your fault' appeared like a wild giant. If Cole hadn't been in such a sorry state that would have stoked the rage simmering quietly inside Dorian, turned it outward to lash out at Cole. Instead, he pulled Cole more firmly into his lap and wrapped his arms around him.

“All right, Cole,” Dorian said, holding him gingerly so as not to jostle his injuries. “I'll keep my distance from the inquisitor, as much as I can.” How could he do anything less with Bull's life and Cole's safety in the balance?

“Blackwall too.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “What about Blackwall?”

“Big hairy shem beast. Serve him right for lying to me. The inquisitor likes the way way he looks. He didn't even like the way I looked before he changed it.” Cole tugged self-consciously at one of his curls. “He really likes the way you look.”

“Doesn't everyone?” Dorian said with a weak smile.

“Wanting and wanting. He only ever looks at that qunari brute. I'll snap off his horns and fuck the uppity bitch with them.” Dorian started. Hearing Cole say 'fuck' would be enough of a shock outside of that context. But Cole wasn't finished. “I can't let anyone else get hurt because of me. Please understand, Dorian.”

“I'll do all I can to ensure that doesn't happen, Cole.”

He had two months in which Lavellan couldn't touch Cole. There had to be a way to stop him for good in that time without getting near him or his grabby little hands. Two months. All right. That was plenty of time.

***

It grew harder to avoid Lavellan, so Dorian tried to ensure he was at least never alone with him. He spent his nights with Bull – long, awful nights of Bull's nightmares, and trying to comfort him while never daring to admit that he knew the cause in case Lavellan got wind of it. His days were spent in the library as usual, but only when it was packed full of other people. Please understand, Dorian. He didn't, not truly, but he supposed a spirit of compassion would see little sense in revenge. And the last thing Dorian wanted to do was make Cole's situation worse. Without Cole for... company... Lavellan turned surly. Not even keeping up the pretence of charm. Since Lavellan lost his temper when he was so much as looked at funny, Dorian had to be ever subtler in his machinations. Never give Lavellan any reason to believe he was a threat. The stress of the whole thing was turning Dorian prematurely grey. He'd found a strand of silver in his hairbrush just that morning.

“You'll still be the finest piece of ass out of Tevinter when you go grey,” Bull said, looking rough and tired.

“Only Tevinter?” Dorian said, relieved to see a grin on Bull's face.

Dorian caught himself smiling at the memory. Ugh, what a grinning simpleton he must look. He had more important things to be occupied with. And someone who may be able to help him with it.

“Solas, may I have a word?”

“I'm sure you have many,” Solas said. He was painting the walls of his office in a naïve style that was oddly charming. He didn't bother to pause mid-brush stroke to address Dorian.

“I was wondering if I might consult your expertise?”

Solas stopped painting and turned to acknowledge Dorian. They would never be friends, but Solas was never one to pass up the opportunity to expound upon how clever he was. “What do you wish to know?”

“I've heard much about this Rite of Tranquility.” A lot of panic, mostly, ever since Lavellan had sentenced Livius Erimond to it. It couldn't have happened to a nicer chap but there was still something about it that had sat badly with Dorian. A mage sentencing another mage to that? Oh how quickly his opinions had changed once he'd discovered the extent of Lavellan's crimes. It was a barbaric practise, to be sure, but barbarism begot barbarism. The only part of Lavellan anyone needed was that hand.

“It is a severing of everything that makes a person who they were, cut off not only from the Fade but their emotions and dreams,” Solas said severely, like he was scolding an impertinent student. “That much is obvious from observation.”

Of course. Being cut off from the Fade would be Solas' worst nightmare. And he'd viewed Dorian with nothing but suspicion since the first day he laid eyes on him. “Oh, I've no doubt it's a horrid affair. What your templars get up to behind closed doors would rival the magisterium's worst members if they weren't so terribly dour about everything. I'm more interested in this 'link' to the Fade it allegedly severs. There's little in the way of literature about the procedure.” Something involving the brain? That sunburst brand on Hellisma's forehead would indicate as much...

“I have never performed the ritual.”

Always so hostile, Solas. “But what is this link? Something corporeal enough to be taken away in a shadowy ritual, clearly. Could it be given back? Or... strengthened somehow?”

“If there were a way it would likely be dangerous.”

So obtuse. What did Solas think Dorian was going to do? Raise an army of cured tranquil and storm the magisterium with them? “Would external magic alter the efficacy of the technique, do you think?” Dorian was now being as subtle as a rampaging druffalo but he'd get no answers while Solas suspected him of evil-doing. “If our dear inquisitor had happened to be a tranquil at the time of the conclave...” If only. “Would the mark have affected that?”

Solas gave him nothing. Not even a minute change of expression. “I see nothing of the tranquil. They exist outside of the Fade. Perhaps your first enchanter would be more knowledgeable on the topic, she certainly has no qualms about templars wielding the brand.”

Dorian sighed internally. Solas' body language had gotten noticeably more hostile since Dorian mentioned Lavellan. Solas was one of the few people who still seemed to enjoy the inquisitor's company. If only he knew.

“My theory is that the anchor is too strong a link to the Fade to be trifled with,” Dorian said. “It would either cure tranquility or tranquility would cure the anchor.” But he hoped he was wrong. Maker, if Lavellan couldn't feel his sick desires Cole would finally be safe. They would all be safe. And Thedas wouldn't have to be doomed to achieve it.

This earned him some grudging respect. “The former, I believe,” Solas said. “The rite of tranquility is a facet of the Chantry, and their brute force approach rarely allows for deviation.”

Dorian tried to approach that news with his usual levity. “They must be trembling at the idea of a mage who can't be made tranquil.”

***

One look at Sera's face told Dorian something was terribly wrong. He knew it was even worse when he saw Vivienne's carefully hidden distress. Bull. Where was Bull? He'd went out in the field with Lavellan – despite Dorian trying to tempt him to stay. Why wasn't he walking in laughing with Sera like usual? A cart was dragged in after them. Dorian caught only a glimpse of Bull – restrained. Why was he restrained? – and his mass of bloody, bruised skin. Dorian only realised he was running when he felt a hand close around his biceps and stopped short.

“Making a scene will only impede the healers,” Vivienne said. She could move like a rogue when she wanted to. She tightened her grip on him when Lavellan passed. “Remain calm.”

“Calm?”

She stepped a little closer. Dorian could feel the tingle of magic at her fingertips. “Yes, dear. Rashness at this point will benefit no one.”

Dorian tried to think past the anger, and the gnawing worry, see the sense in what she was saying. “What happened?”

“One of your countrymen hit Bull with a horror spell. It made him attack the inquisitor. Their struggle took them down a hillside. By the time Sera and I dispatched the rest of the Venatori and found a safe way around, Bull was rather worse for wear.”

No. Dorian tried not to torture himself with the details of what might have happened. Bull and Lavellan alone, and Lavellan couldn't have been given a more perfect set up if he'd asked. The savage qunari attacking the precious saviour of Thedas. “How long?”

“A half day before we found them, though it may have seemed longer due to the company I was forced to keep.” She gave Sera a meaningful scowl. Sera could only be described as distraught, with Blackwall awkwardly trying to comfort her. “I did what I could to ensure Bull remained alive during the journey but he is gravely injured.”

“I need–”

“You need to allow the healers to do their work, and resist the temptation to do anything else. Clear your head, and then act.”

Act? Like boil all of the blood in Lavellan's veins? Tear him limb from limb with force magic. Reanimate his corpse just to do it all over again. Vivienne was still talking, almost inaudible over the roar in Dorian's ears.

“It's miraculous that our dear inquisitor sustained no injuries after a head to head fight with a qunari.” Dorian tried to listen to what she was really saying, when just listening was already a struggle. “As for Bull, I can't think what could have possibly gotten into him.”

“Yes,” Dorian choked out. “Terrible business.”

“Indeed. I'm concerned about the toll this might take on you, darling. We can't have yet another member of the inquisition indisposed. The healers need my assistance right this moment, but we should head to Val Royeaux when I'm finished. Some real Orlesian wine will take your mind off things.”

“That would be lovely.” Dorian sounded wooden. A coldness sat in his gut that he hadn't felt since... Well, he already had enough to feel without thinking back to that.

“Come along, darling. Hold Bull's hand. We'll work around you.”

***

It was the small hours when Dorian woke. Bull hadn't stirred for a second. Not when the surgeon, healers, and Vivienne pieced what seemed like every muscle and bone he had back together. It was nothing to worry about, they said. They were keeping him asleep so he didn't jostle anything. Bull was now mummified in bandages. It was for the best. Even after healing, Bull's face was still so swollen he wouldn't be able to open his good eye. There were stitches in his lip and a new bend in his nose. One of his horns had been snapped off close to his skull, and Dorian's stomach turned remembering Lavellan's threat repeated in Cole's voice. Dorian had sat vigil until sleep dragged him under, and now the infirmary was quiet.

Dorian wished it was quieter. Lavellan stood over him, arms crossed. Had he been watching Dorian sleep? How very typical of his ilk.

“You,” Dorian hissed, putting as much venom into that one syllable as he could muster. “I know you did this.”

“Of course I did. He tried to kill me.”

There was so much Dorian wanted to rail against that the words got stuck in his throat. If Bull died from this, nothing, nothing would stop him from ending Lavellan. It wasn't a step too far, Lavellan had taken that step long ago with Cole-- speaking of Cole. Where was he? Not in his infirmary bed. It lay empty. Not hovering around Bull trying to 'help' as Dorian would expect.

“Are you all right, Dorian?”

The concern sounded so fucking genuine, he could spit. “Where is he?”

“Where's who?”

“You know fine well who. The surgeon said he wasn't to move.”

“Cole is recovering somewhere more comfortable. But he's not the person you should be concerned about.” Lavellan indicated Bull. “He did attack me, whatever you wish to believe. Whether he faces judgement or forgiveness when he wakes is up to you.”

“No one will allow you to kill Bull.”

“Won't they? He's tal vashoth. Without the qun to keep him in check, he grew savage.” Lavellan had the gall to touch Dorian's cheek, and Dorian didn't dare move away from it. “He's warned us all of the possibility enough times. Who will defend him? You? A Tevinter mage who, for all we know, has been allied with Corypheus this whole time. Cole is in no condition to testify. And I am the herald of Andraste, saviour of the queen of Orlais, the king of Fereldan, and what remains of the Grey Wardens. My word is already practically law. Your petty lives won't matter and nor will your petty lies.”

Of course. Of course this was how it worked out. Dorian wanted to scream and rage at the absolute futility of everything he'd done until now. Instead, he forced his voice and gaze to remain steady. “Shall we get this over with then?”

***

There might be no helping him now, but Dorian would only be as compliant as he had to be. He entered Lavellan's room with a sneer and a comment about the décor at the ready, and faltered when he saw Cole tucked up in a smaller bed by Lavellan's. Inert, even for someone asleep. It had to be magical, like the trance the healers were keeping Bull in. He was surrounded by health potions of varying strengths. Was Lavellan really going to do this with Cole right there?

“He insisted on running around,” Lavellan said. “He has to heal.”

“I'm sure your concern for his well-being is of great comfort to him.”

At least he would be blissfully unaware of what was happening beside him. Lavellan sighed a sigh of the world-weary. “This has all gotten out of hand. I didn't want to hurt Bull, but I can't have someone at my back who tries to kill me every time it's turned. You can despise me if you want, but I can't have anyone around who's going to jeopardise our cause.”

Dorian said nothing. Pointing out the hypocrisy wouldn't make Lavellan see it. In the beginning, Lavellan had seemed to care about more than the cause, and they'd all been swept up in that lie. Now it was too late to deal with the man Lavellan had always been.

“Nothing to say? That must be a first for you.”

Dorian snorted at the pathetic barb. “And rob you of the chance to proselytize about how necessary everything you'd done is?”

“You could have prevented all of this, Dorian.”

“This?” Dorian gestured to Cole. “No one forced you to... No one forced you to do what you did to Cole.”

“I wanted you.”

Didn't that just perfectly encapsulate Lavellan's worldview? As if any of this could be justified. “I am not something to be had, and nor is he.”

Lavellan ran his fingers through Cole's hair. Dorian quelled the urge to break them. “Everything I did was to protect the inquisition.” 

“You've honestly deluded yourself into believing that, haven't you?”

Lavellan didn't react overmuch. He looked sad and tired and altogether too normal. But demons sometimes looked like people, too. Cole would probably have something to say about that if he wasn't magically drugged and gravely injured. There was a time Dorian believed too. Believed Lavellan had been sent by the Maker at their time of need. Hard to imagine now.

“You didn't come here to chat,” Lavellan said. “Take off your clothes, Dorian.”

Glaring, Dorian undid the various buckles and belts that kept his outfit in place. Bull had bemoaned them so many times– No. Lavellan wouldn't ruin that. Dorian would keep it locked away, untouched by the taint of this moment. He shoved his clothes off with little care. No one could accuse him of trying to titillate. In fact, he had his back turned to Lavellan for most of it. Best neither of them commented on his expression.

“Stop,” Lavellan said, when Dorian stood only in his smalls. Black silk that moulded to Dorian's body. He'd been so thrilled when he'd bought them, enthusing about the quality of the silk, finer than he'd ever expected to find in the South. He should have worn something else. Shouldn't have been so damn vain for once. Lavellan pressed up against him, moulding to his back almost as tightly as the silk. The urge to flee almost overwhelmed him, the shock of Lavellan's hard cock against his arse, but he planted his feet. He had to. For Bull. For Cole. Maker, he wished he could shut his ears as easily as his mouth. Lavellan made appreciative noises as he cupped Dorian's cock and balls through the silk, ran his fingers along Dorian's flaccid cock. Dorian forced his hands to hang limp, lest he give in to the temptation to use his fists.

It didn't seem altogether real after the initial shock. His body didn't feel his own. When he looked down, it was a stranger being groped by Lavellan. A stranger's back perspiring and too cold all at once when Lavellan kissed his neck. A stranger whose smalls were pulled down, a stranger's feet stepping out of them.

“You really are beautiful,” Lavellan said, cupping Dorian's crotch again. Dorian remained soft. Didn't think he'd ever get hard again. “And almost as hairless as an elf.”

He really likes the way you look. Dorian never thought he'd regret the hours of tweezing, trimming, shaving, oiling– Lavellan nipped the back of his neck. Dorian didn't whimper. A mere shuddering breath escaped. Maker knew how Lavellan interpreted that because Dorian was suddenly more aware of Lavellan's erection shoving against him.

“Get on the bed.”

It was harder than it should be to look at Lavellan. Dorian wasn't, after all, the one who ought to be ashamed. The sight of Lavellan's fluster hit him like an arrow to the gut. Laying back on the bed was like falling into quicksand.

“Lovely,” Lavellan said. He remained dressed and Dorian hoped, hoped for a second, that he'd be satisfied with watching. If it was a choice between one violation and another, Dorian could do that. Could put on a show.

That minute hope shattered with the unlacing of Lavellan's breeches. The situation was still somewhat padded, numb like his face after too much wine, so he didn't react as Lavellan's cock was bared and slicked with oil. Didn't react even when Lavellan pushed his legs apart. No, he wouldn't give Lavellan the satisfaction.

The sensation of a cock against his hole used to be such a pleasant one, full of anticipated pleasure. This time, his stomach lurched. He knew he shouldn't, that it would only make it worse for him, but he still clenched his hole, his teeth, his whole body a tight line of resistance. Lavellan merely shoved into him. It didn't hurt as much as he'd thought. Not physically. The slickness of oil and pre-come, and he was used to taking bigger– he stalled that thought. Tried to concentrate on the ceiling above Lavellan's head and ignore the sensations of his body. Not see Lavellan's face bobbing up and down. Lavellan was loud about his pleasure. An almost innocent wonder and joy on his too-young face.

Elves always looked so young...

“You feel good,” Lavellan said. Practically cooed.

“Oh, are you in?” Dorian's voice was strangled, much less flippant than he intended. Lavellan's cock sliding in and out and in and out of him crowded out everything, moored him to this terrible moment, wouldn't let him drift elsewhere.

“No surprise you don't feel it after taking a qunari.”

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden itch in the back of his eyeballs. Lavellan could have his body, but he wouldn't have his tears. And opened his eyes when it made everything too stark. The slight burn every time Lavellan thrust, like rug burn deep inside him. Lavellan stroked every part of him he could reach, long fingers tracing every muscle, stuttering across his skin at every shudder and flinch. Even stroked Dorian's fastidiously trimmed pubic hair and the hair on his underarms, apparently fascinated by it. Every touch was a fire trail. Thankfully, he stayed away from Dorian's cock. Even he must have known that was a losing battle.

And finally it was over. Lavellan came buried in him to the root, taking a few last thrusts until he was finally satisfied. Dorian rolled away immediately. A bath first. A bath and as much wine as he could keep down, and he could forget. The stranger was back – limbs that looked like his, but that he couldn't operate. His legs wouldn't support him.

“Wait,” Lavellan said. “I want your mouth as well.”

Not over then. Lavellan drained a lyrium potion, and suddenly he was hard again. Dorian tried not to think about where it had been, and opened his mouth. Pliant, until he got an eyeful of Lavellan's cock. There were teeth marks on it. Teeth marks. At first, Dorian couldn't process the full horror of it. Jerked his head away on reflex. No. No. Please.

“Bull bites,” Lavellan said.

You think he can't hurt you, but he can. Dorian launched himself at Lavellan. Physically, he had the advantage. He was bigger. Stronger. He wrestled Lavellan to the floor with barely an effort. He'd punched Lavellan hard enough to bloody and bruise and hopefully break his filthy nose before Lavellan could retaliate. The rage had been so engulfing, Dorian only remembered he had magic at all when Lavellan threw him away with a barrier. Doiran dispelled it but Lavellan had already taken the opportunity to get to his feet.

The next spell hit Dorian with all the clout the Anchor gave it. Sleep. Dorian tried to fight it but it would be easier to fight drowning at the bottom of the ocean. Futile as it had been at the start, with Lavellan's footsteps growing closer.

***

There was no transition between sleeping and waking. Dorian thrashed and screamed. Rope rasped against his wrists and ankles hard enough to skin them. Each arm was lashed to a bedpost, his knees tied to his thighs to keep his legs bent, and his ankles attached to the remaining bedpost to keep his legs spread. He reached for his magic but it wouldn't come, the bitter aftertaste of magebane in his throat.

“You do look good in rope,” Lavellan said.

“You piece of filth. I'll make sure you never get your vile hands on anyone else.”

“I gave you every opportunity to make this civil.”

“Civil? You'd kill Bull if I didn't!”

“I said I would judge Bull, not that I would kill him.”

Dorian thrashed again. He twisted every part of his body he could move. The ropes only tightened, numbing his hands and feet as they cut off the circulation. He howled, throwing every invective at Lavellan he could think of, making up new ones just to scream them at him. He knew wasting so much energy was unwise but the memory of those teeth marks robbed him of all reason. If he had his magic he'd burn down this entire room just for a chance to hit Lavellan again. Lavellan simply watched him with that sick desire in his eyes.

“Bull had his chance to protect you,” Lavellan said. “He chose to protect himself.”

“You lying piece of shit! I'll kill you.” Dorian stopped struggling only because he was in danger of breaking his back. “I'll kill you and I'll shake Corypheus' hand if I have to for the opportunity to do it.”

Lavellan climbed onto the bed between Dorian's trussed-up knees. He shoved inside him without ceremony. There was no leverage for Dorian to push off, just Lavellan's cock sliding into him deeper and deeper. It was sore with Dorian's already-used body clamping down on the intrusion, no slick but Lavellan's old come to ease the way.

In the bed beside them, Cole stirred and whimpered. Perhaps Dorian's rage and pain made it across the veil. Dorian closed his eyes and tried to disassociate again. Anything else, anywhere else... please...

“I always thought you'd be louder in bed,” Lavellan said.

In bed? In bed? Dorian had the absurd urge to laugh. Who was Lavellan trying to sell that lie to? Himself? Did he honestly expect Dorian to be enthusiastic? When every time he thrust into Dorian with a sickening, humiliating squelch and slap of their bodies, Dorian cringed.

“Bull was loud.”

The words were a lance through both of Dorian's ears. He couldn't have stopped himself from struggling if he'd tried, tossing in his bonds like he'd been hit with chain lightning. Lavellan only captured his hips and fucked him harder. Dorian bayed, muscles shrieking under his skin, bones at ugly angles, as he tried to escape either Lavellan's cock or Lavellan's grip.

Cole made a high sound that echoed Dorian's scream, sleeping still, but tossing as in the throes of a nightmare.

Lavellan came in Dorian while he was still thrashing around. The shock of it made Dorian go limp, wailing as Lavellan spread his arse cheeks to slide his cock out. To watch as come leaked out of Dorian's hole.

“Behold the herald of Andraste,” Dorian said, with all the contempt in the world. “A common rapist.”

“I am not a rapist!” Lavellan roared that, as if he could deafen the world. The hysterical peal of Dorian's laughter rang into the silence that followed. “You swore service to the inquistion, and you all betrayed me!”

“My mistake.” Maker, Dorian hurt. Aching inside and out. “You were, of course, entirely justified to tie me down and violate me.”

Lavellan didn't respond. Just calmly selected another lyrium potion, and crawled back onto the bed.

He violated Dorian again and again and again and again... Filling his arse, his mouth, then covering him with his come. At some point, the ropes came off, but his limbs were useless. Shrapnel sharp pain shot up and down his legs when he tried to move them. Whited out his world for a few blissful moments. Allowed Lavellan to arrange him as he wished, fuck him face-down on the mattress, on his knees, fuck his face. Sprawled out and soaked in unspeakable mess. Drifting in pain and shock.

Until Lavellan shoved his fist inside Dorian. Big. Too big. Stretching and pushing at his insides. Dorian screamed. The pain was unbearable. Unspeakable. Too much for words, just screaming until his voice cracked, and screaming some more. Lavellan didn't tire of it easily. He'd wrung out every last shred of Dorian's voice, sense, self before he stopped. The hard use of Dorian's body had him so loose and sore that even the lick of air on his hole was agony.

Dorian gave a floppy, dying fish fight when Lavellan seized him again. Wept openly as Lavellan thrust his cock into him again, sure it would never be over. He'd be trapped in Lavellan's quarters forever, taking his cock, his fists, used every second of every day until the starvation or the thirst took him. 

A pale hand closed over Lavellan's skull.

“Remember,” Cole said.

Lavellan let out a demon screech and toppled off the bed clutching his head. Cole was... unnatural. It may be that Dorian was strung out on pain, but Cole's skin glowed faintly. Gold. Beautiful and terrifying as he bent down to capture Lavellan's head once more.

“Remember.”

Another piercing scream. An echo of the never-ending ones Dorian had been unleashing for hours on end. Remember. Cole's voice had a rawness like when he channelled someone else's rage, a realness that cut through the fugue of horror and pain. To that voice, Lavellan's screams were mere background noise. Dorian lay limp while his nerves fired searing agony to remind him that he still had limbs. His stomach pitched. His insides stung like he'd been scoured with acid. A pitiful amount of relief as his magic returned and he could send cooling spells to the worst of it. Oh, how he regretted never learning any healing spells.

He tried to form Cole's name but all that came out was a croak. Somewhere in that crush of awfulness upon awfulness Lavellan had forced Dorian's jaw open and Dorian didn't know whether it was blood or bile in the back of his throat. If something had torn and robbed him of the power of speech forever.

The thing that turned its head wasn't Cole. Not the awkward boy who'd stop in the middle of a fight to shoo a nug from the line of fire. No, this thing strode toward Dorian with confidence, keeping Lavellan at bay without a glance. Dorian only closed his eyes as Cole drew his dagger. He simply had no struggle left in him. Lavellan had taken that a dozen rapes ago. The hot angry tears that rolled down Dorian's cheeks were his only protest. 

Bull bites. One final sting among all the others. He couldn't protect Bull, and Bull couldn't protect him, and Cole protected neither. All trying to save each other, and saving no one.

“You won't have to suffer anymore,” Cole said. He rested the blade over Dorian's heart. Gently. Too gently.

“Don't.” It was a whisper, a mere ghost of the protest he meant to make. Maker help him, he wanted to live. His body was a wreck, his mind not much better, but he wanted to live. “Don't.”

“He hurt you. I can't fix it anymore. I can't–”

His hands were as uncooperative as two ice blocks but Dorian reached for Cole and opened his eyes. Cole had a little less of that golden glow. The pressure on the knife eased. Dorian held his forearm. “No, Cole.” Every word was like trying to swallow gravel. Hitherto this moment, words had always been easy. 

“You think your hands are broken. Can't feel your fingers,” Cole said. “Throat is bruised. Every inch touched, tainted, tarnished forever.” Cole pulled the knife away and turned it on himself.

“No.” The cry shredded the rest of Dorian's throat. He drew strength from nowhere, enough to wrestle Cole to the ground. He saw blood and for one terrible moment, he thought he'd been too late. But Cole's dagger skittered away and Cole's chest rose and fell rapidly underneath him. Only a long scratch on Cole's throat. Dorian collapsed on top of Cole. He didn't think he'd find any more strength to get up. He sobbed into Cole's chest, the vision of Cole taking his life had pushed him over the brink and now he couldn't stop.

“I don't think I die, Dorian,” Cole said. “The Fade just tries to pull me back. But I want out. I want him out of me – fingers and mouth and hand and sliding in good boy, so tight. The templars hurt the real Cole like he hurt us...”

Dorian only wailed harder. The tears were unstoppable, and messy, bawling like a Maker-forsaken child. “Stop,” he gasped. “Stop, Cole.”

Cole stroked Dorian's filthy hair the way Bull used to once upon a time. “You hurt too much. It's easier not to be me.”

“I... I know.” Dorian reached feebly for a health potion. Cole propped him against the foot of the bed and fetched it for him. He passed Dorian potion after potion until his throat was strong enough to talk with. “I know. Things like this, they kill a part of everyone.” But there was enough of Cole left to care. To hand him a potion every time something new twinged. “But the parts that survive don't have to make something terrible.”

“Your parts won't. Mine are too many broken parts of something that was never whole.” Cole picked up his dagger. “I put the inquisitor in the old hurts but it won't last forever. There's only one way left to protect you.” Too quick to feel, he slid the dagger between Dorian's ribs.


	5. Cut Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic rape, references to rape, and torture.

“I missed the heart,” Cole said matter-of-factly. “I have to try again.”

Surreal, really. Dorian thought he'd been punched in the chest until he saw the dagger poking out of him. He didn't feel it, was just...aware of it lodged there. Dorian knew very well that was an illusion of shock and adrenaline, but a welcome one. He seized the hilt of the dagger before Cole could. “No, Cole.” If the dagger came out, so would his blood. “It isn't hopeless.” Said he, with an arse full of Lavellan's come and a dagger in his breast. “You're not alone anymore.”

“You're wrong!” Cole yelled but didn't, thankfully, reach for the dagger. “I can't– Can't fix this and can't. Can't.” Cole's eyes were frantic, like a squealing calf about to be bled my a magister. It had been the wrong thing to say. Cole had been violated too, subjected to Lavellan's whims for so much longer, and Dorian had spoke of hope like a fool. “I need to make it stop.” Cole was crouched on his haunches, rocking onto the balls of his feet. The nervous movement made Dorian more nauseous, or perhaps that was just the slow ooze of Lavellan's come between his buttocks. The itch and burn he'd left behind him. “I need to make it stop,” Cole said, in a small broken voice that made Dorian want to weep some more. “Make you stop. Make it all stop. Stop. STOP IT.”

The sudden shout made Dorian start, jarring the dagger in his hand. A sliver of pain, and then it subsided. He let his head loll onto the bed, still reeking of come and sweat and struggle. Maker, how could he explain wanting to live through this? To anyone, let alone Cole. “Stop what?”

“Hurting. You're too loud.”

“I know.” It would twist anyone, being at Lavellan's beck and call for months. So Dorian wasn't angry. Or scared. Cole didn't want to kill him, wouldn't have fought so hard to heal him if he did. Wouldn't have poured potions into Dorian's mouth with such care, and kept pouring them until they'd obliterated the taste of Lavellan. “But there'll be no hiding this now. We can stop him, before anyone else gets hurt.”

“You're wrong, Dorian.” Cole drew his other dagger. “I wish you were right.”

Dorian hit him with a lightning bolt, pouring every bit of his returning magic into the spell. The screams it wrung out of Cole were haunting even after everything Dorian had endured today. And Lavellan stirred, snapped free from Cole's strange powers. Dorian got himself to his feet somehow, panting with exertion all the way. Another battle for his footing had him walking and dragging Lavellan's quilt with him. He staggered down the steps and into the main hall. Not pursued. Small mercies.

He fell onto all fours as soon as he reached the throne room. His vision wobbled, the arm he was braced on barely held him, but he had to stay awake. Alert. Cling to consciousness so he could keep clinging to the dagger.

“Maker's balls!”

That was... Blackwall's voice. Yes, Blackwall. He and Sera were there. Sera scratching something undoubtedly obscene into the back of Lavellan's throne, Blackwall with a drink in hand. The sight was absurdly mundane after everything that had happened. At some point in that room, Dorian had ceased to believe the outside world existed. Dorian hung his head as Blackwall's heavy tread grew closer. Then Dorian didn't have to support himself anymore because Blackwall did it for him. 

“Maker's balls,” Blackwall said again. “Let's... let's get you decent.” Blackwall wrapped the quilt tighter around Dorian's waist.

“What's happened?” Oh, Maker. Sera, sounding so small and young. “What's...?”

“Run on and get the surgeon. You don't need to see this.”

But she did see. What had happened couldn't have been more obvious. Dorian's cheeks were still coated in tears and Lavellan's come, and Sera shrieked. A piercing, horrified shriek.

“Sera,” Blackwall said, sharply. “Get the surgeon. Get her to Solas' office now.”

“But–”

“I know, but he needs healing first.”

Sera's footsteps skittered away. Blackwall added pressure to the knife with his hand. “Not Solas,” Dorian said. He didn't want Solas to see this. The haughty Tevinter mage taken down a peg. Wouldn't that just make his day? Part of Dorian contested that was ridiculous, and that Solas wasn't known for untoward cruelty, but he felt... filthy. Ruined. Could feel... things... congealing in his hair and moustache. He didn't know how Blackwall could stand to be so close to him. “I need a bath.”

“We'll get you a bath soon enough. Seen wounds like that before. You've done right to keep it plugged.” Blackwall took the brunt of Dorian's weight and led him one careful step after another. “Had one of my men take a sabre to chest like that once. Came all the way out the other side.”

Dorian knew exactly what Blackwall was doing. Trying to keep him distracted with an inane story long enough to get him to Solas. And so help him, it was working.

“He lived.” Blackwall kicked Solas' door open. “And you will too.”

Solas was awake still. He leapt from his chair, hands already glowing green. Blackwall lowered Dorian onto the couch.

“Solas–”

“I see it.”

Solas placed his hands just below the dagger, sending a revival spell coursing through Dorian's body. “Blackwall, the dagger.” It hurt more coming out than going in, the breath in Dorian's lungs sharp but only for a moment before the revival spell washed over him. It was a beautiful spell. He'd seen it get the close range fighters back on their feet after blows that should have killed them, green wings bursting from their backs, time and time again. It closed every wound in his body even the little stinging hurts. A beautiful spell, but it removed the immediate preoccupation with whether he lived or died and left him to deal with... the rest.

He tried to bolt but Blackwall pushed him back down. “You're all right, Dorian. Just stay here till the surgeon checks you over.” The rough giant hands clamping him down. The body looming over him. Dorian lashed out, a blow Blackwall easily dodged.

“Easy, Dorian,” Blackwall said, holding both hands up. “No one's after hurting you.”

Solas had been staring at the dagger Blackwall had pulled out of him. Cole's. Obviously Cole's. He placed it upon his desk, face grim, before returning to Dorian. “How would you like us to proceed?”

They were both being so bloody calm and reasonable, and Dorian wanted to blind them for seeing him like this. Haughty fucking Solas and Blackwall's imagined class warfare. Tears of humiliation stung Dorian's eyes. “This must be so gratifying for you two.”

“Dorian, no.” Blackwall actually had the gall to sound hurt. 

“You've been railing against my ego since the day we met. Enjoying luxuries that other people can't. Appropriating elvhen magic. Don't pretend that it doesn't give you a little satisfaction to see me get a taste of what it's like beneath someone.” Blackwall's face crumpled. For a moment, Dorian thought he would actually cry. In his periphery, Solas seemed completely unmoved, but Blackwall's eyes welled. And Maker forsake him, Dorian wanted that. Wanted those tears. Wanted to reduce Blackwall, that ridiculous bear of a man, to them. “Is it everything you imagined?” Dorian demanded. “Well? Is it?”

Blackwall said nothing, just dipped his head. That only inflamed Dorian more.

“You look at me! I know you want to. Go on. Get your fill of it. Take a good long look at me put in my place.”

Blackwall swallowed, and to his credit, looked Dorian in the eyes. “I'll have whoever did this's balls, I swear it.”

That was too much. Dorian curled into a ball of pain and shame.

“Is there someone you'd prefer to have with you?” Solas asked.

Bull. But Bull wouldn't be conscious yet. Cullen was his second thought, but he couldn't risk him sending soldiers to bash heads in. Not with Lavellan on the loose, and Cole so fragile he might attack one of them. And he wanted to see Cullen's sad labrador face even less. “Vivienne.” She knew something, and knew not to be too blatant. “Just Vivienne. And your healing was sufficient. I don't need the surgeon or anyone else gawking at me. And make sure Bull isn't alone.”

“As you wish.”

Vivienne entered at a dignified rush, heels clicking down every tread of the stairs. Whatever she might have thought about Dorian's current state, she hid it behind an impassive glance. She was a woman who didn't need a mask to play the Game. “Our inquisitor's work, I presume,” she said.

“He is ever so fond of his work.” The sentence exhausted Dorian just to say, and the way it came out of his mouth destroyed any flippancy. “He's had his way with Cole and Bull too.”

“I see,” Vivienne said, in a voice entirely too wooden for someone who could make the word 'dear' sound like either the sweetest compliment or the vilest insult. 

“Bull may be in danger. I have to go to him. I have to–”

“You're in no fit state for that, darling.” There, the inflection was back. Almost maternal this time. “I sent Blackwall along to Bull directly, and the apostate trailed along after.”

“But what if–?”

“What ifs won't serve any purpose right now. Let's get you presentable.” Vivienne reached for him, then paused. “May I touch your shoulder?”

“Yes.” It was different with her. None of the instinctive fear that had made him lash out after Blackwall's thoughtless grab. She helped him up. Solas had healed everything but he found he still needed the support.

She took him down into the depths of Skyhold where she'd somehow commandeered a private bath. They must have been elvhen once. Everything under the sun had been, according to Solas, but the patterns of interlocking leaves and branches supported that theory. They were dips in the stone floor that filled with run-off from the waterfall in the undercroft by a complicated series of valves that were far too dull for Dorian to bother understanding. Vivienne filled the bath for him and heated the water until it steamed. It stirred softer memories. Of being wrapped in a towel three sizes bigger than him while a slave prepared the bathing chamber, tousled his hair when she was done.

“Would you prefer privacy or company?” Vivienne asked, setting a range of divine-smelling soaps and oils by the side of the bath.

“Company.” Dorian said it in such a small voice that he wasn't sure she'd heard. Pathetic, but he needed someone with him. Bull specifically, but that wasn't an option.

Vivienne offered Dorian a bucket full of steaming water. “Crude facilities,” she said. “But we'll have to make do.”

Dorian let the blanket fall from his hips. He fought more tears for a few blurry seconds. Vivienne didn't look below his chin, just instructed him to close his eyes, and poured the bucket over his head. It took three more buckets for him to be assured he wouldn't simply be filling the bath with Lavellan's filth. Finally, he could sink into it.

The hot water was... not bliss. He couldn't achieve that right now. But it soothed a few of the remaining aches, and Vivienne had the foresight to fill the water with something frothy that hid his body from view.

“I didn't fight. I–”

“It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do.” She settled behind him. He wanted Bull and the comfort of his huge arms, and badly, but he would have been affected in a way Vivienne wasn't. So calm and firm when she spoke. “Shall I take care of your hair, dear?”

Dorian nodded. The buckets had taken off the worst of it but it was a matted, sweaty tangle. Vivienne dug her fingers into it, long nails clicking across his scalp. She worked it into a lather that smelled of vanilla and camomile. Milder than the scents he usually favoured, but pleasant all the same. She worked in silence, fingers gentler than he expected. “There,” she said, after untangling one last particularly stubborn knot. “You already look more yourself.”

“I should be with Bull. Not preening.”

“This isn't preening. This is recovery. In the field we don't carelessly throw ourselves into one battle after the other. We regroup, rest, and restock.”

“He said he'd kill Bull.” It seemed important for her to know that. To know there was a reason he hadn't fought. A reason he came out unscathed, at least compared to Cole and Bull.

“That won't happen. You aren't alone in this. Not anymore.”

***

Lavellan woke like he'd surfaced from a deep icy lake. The memories that had assaulted him had been consuming, some his own, others not, all the pain in the world pouring into his head. He couldn't even summon any righteous anger toward the person – thing who'd caused it. Cole was flat on his back, twitching, arms and legs kicking out as sparks jumped up and down his body. Dorian had fled, leaving only a few spilled potions behind. 

In light of what he'd done, Lavellan stood over Cole and watched for a while. He didn't seem aware of him, sucked into a world of his own pain. A fitting punishment even if Lavellan hadn't been the one to deliver it. Lavellan let him fry for a few more moments before he dispelled the magic. Cole was in a bad way, lines like tree branches scorched into his skin. But not hurt so badly that he couldn't roll up and cast his hand out toward Lavellan.

“Rem–”

“Don't you dare.” Lavellan compressed Cole's throat with force magic. Not enough to crush it, just enough to shut him up. He grabbed the scruff of Cole's neck and threw him on the bed, Cole clutching ta his throat as if that could make it open. Lavellan crawled over him. He jabbed Cole in the stomach, right where the stitches held it closed. A strangled groan escaped from his too-tight throat. “Think you're clever, demon?” Cole scrabbled at him, wild-eyed. Lavellan punched him again. Cole scratched and clawed at him, weak and strong strokes as he fought to breathe. Lavellan punched and punched and punched until blood spotted Cole's mouth and the scrabbling stopped.

Cole's eyes rolled back in his head. Lavellan slapped him until they came back. “Come on, demon.” Another slap. Another punch. “Show me what you really are.”

Nothing. Just pink handprints on Cole's cheeks. Tears welling in his eyes. Lavellan ripped open the laces of Cole's breeches, paper thin things that the surgeon had given him. There it was. A bit of anger in those big, unnaturally blue eyes. It was a shame. Cole could have been such a lovely thing. So cute without all that hair in his face. And so blond. Little blond hairs everywhere. Lavellan grabbed his cock. He'd rarely touched him like that because Cole kicked up such a fuss when he did, and not touching it hadn't affected Lavellan's enjoyment.

Cole screamed, forcing it out through the breathlessness. Like a high dragon when they managed to take out one of its legs. The scrabbling started again, hate in Cole's eyes now.

“That's it.” Lavellan pumped his cock in fast rough stroked. “Demon. Let's see what kind you are.” Cole tried to drive his hips down into the mattress and away from Lavellan's hand. As if that was enough distance. “Not desire. You'd need a more attractive form for that.” Although Lavellan had grown rather fond of Cole's gawky lost puppy look. And he looked good face-down on the mattress, lifting his hips. “Rage?” As much as he protested, Cole always grew hard in his hand. So unused to stimulation that even with him air-starved his cock thickened and thickened. “Despair? Do you think anyone believes that you came here to help anymore?”

Cole flapped his hands until he landed one on Lavellan's forehead. His eyes promised pain, but nothing happened. The qunari sewed their mages' mouths shut for fear of what they power carried on their tongues. Perhaps there was some truth to that. Without his voice, Cole was powerless. His face red and swollen from air loss. Tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Sewing a mouth shut wouldn't stop the truly determined from speaking. Lavellan gathered flame in the tips of his fingers and slowly, delicately, seared Cole's lips shut with strings of his own skin. In his other hand, Cole's cock shrank at the sudden pain, a mangled noise coming out of his throat.

“Come on,” Lavellan said. “Show yourself.”

And he did. Cole's skin glowed golden, cracks of Fade light appearing in the lightning scars, his features fuller than they'd ever been as Lavellan sealed the last corner of his mouth. The rattling noise he made was unearthly. Lavellan threw up a barrier to protect himself but Cole just shoved him away and ran, disappearing before his second step could hit the floor.

***

Blackwall wished it came as a shock. But they'd all had their suspicions after Cole. There'd been warning signs before that. A few too many overtures that Blackwall had gently rebuffed, dismissing it as puppy love until the tone changed. The way he'd talked to Dorian had, at times, even shocked Sera's sensibilities. And the conversations got more and more uncomfortable after every noble in Southern Thedas started to genuflect to the mighty Inquisitor. A weak and small part of him wanted it to be a huge mistake. Didn't want to admit to himself that he'd followed the orders of another terrible man.

“Met a general once,” Blackwall said. “Liked to fiddle with elf boys.”

Solas grimaced. Because of what he'd said, or because it was elves? Hard to tell anything with the inscrutable bastard. Maker, what Blackwall wouldn't give to have Cassandra or Sera at his side right now. Even if Cassandra hated the man he really was. 

“Was there a point to that announcement?” Solas said.

“There is. Thought he wouldn't get caught. They were only elves, he said. Thought I'd agree with him. So cocky he'd blab about it to anyone. Who'd listen to an elf over a chevalier?”

“A sadly common attitude.”

“It's one that's here. Who's stupid and arrogant enough to think they could have at Dorian like that and get away with it?”

Solas knew too. He must. First Cole. Then Bull. And it was Lavellan's chambers Dorian had stumbled out of. “It may be a case of possession.”

“We both know that's no demon.”

A thunderous look passed across Solas' face before he schooled it into neutrality. “All we can do now is ensure no one else is harmed.”

But Bull wasn't in the infirmary. A broken bed, five injured soldiers, and a Chantry mother complaining about being knocked on her arse were. Blackwall knelt to check on one of the men. He was all right. Nothing that wouldn't heal in a matter of days. The rest of them weren't too bad either. Although they'd all been forcibly disarmed – a sword stuck upright in the wall, the splinters of a bow lay shattered underfoot, a shield had been ripped away so forcibly the metal warped. The worst of the damage was on furniture. Small mercies. Blackwall didn't have the stomach for more carnage after the state they'd found Dorian in.

Solas healed the soldiers where they needed it.

“The qunari escaped,” one of the soldiers said. “The herald said not to let him out of our sights.”

The qunari. As if most of the soldiers hadn't had drinking contests with Bull, or went to his bloody bed with him. But they'd all seen the way Bull was brought back to Skyhold. Tied down like a mad bronto. Sera had been in screaming hysterics about it. Something not right, she'd said. And Blackwall agreed. Bull might speak often about going out of control but he planned, he observed. He wouldn't go on a rampage and hurt Inquisition soldiers without good reason.

The bed that had held Bull was snapped in half, most of the posts in ragged pieces. Some of the straps had been pulled open, the cracked leather dangling off the posts. Had he known Dorian was in danger? And if he had, why wasn't he anywhere to be seen? Bull was in no state to be running around. He couldn't have gotten far. Yet the room was in shambles, and he'd somehow managed to leave no trace of where he'd gone.

“What happened?” Solas asked.

“Eh?” It was fairly fucking obvious what had happened. Bull had enough of being tied up and burst right out of his sick bed. “Bull's missing.”

“I mean, what happened to the general?”

“Ah. I knew a fair few elf boys who were a lot rougher than the ones he was used to dealing with. Don't think he was up to fiddling anymore, if he ever walked again.”

***

Asceticism was a hard habit to break, so Cassandra slept lightly on a bedroll so uncomfortable the other members of the Inquisiton sometimes planted pillows on it. But she preferred it without. It kept her alert, always half-listening to the sounds of the keep even in her deepest sleeps. Should anyone attack Skyhold, she would be ready this time. So she heard the small sounds of someone unused to making any noise. She recognised it as Cole immediately, so at first she didn't stir. Cole had come to her before in the middle of the night. Because he wanted to ask her a question, or because he wanted her to read to him and share in her enjoyment. Once to give her some spoiled blueberries and a stale pie crust the cook had allowed him to have, because he knew she liked the cakes but didn't approve of stealing. She'd come to enjoy the visits after they'd discussed things like privacy and boundaries. 

This wasn't one of those visits. When she opened her eyes, Cole was crouched in on himself. He plucked at his own mouth with the tip of a dagger. Even in the half-light she could see scars criss-crossing his body, and burns around the edge of his lips. The most ragged of despair demons would have been a more welcome sight.

She eased herself out of her bedroll and approached Cole carefully. He was skittish at the best of times, and now... “Cole?” Her voice was just under her control. She fought to keep the strain out of it. Cole didn't so much as look at her until he'd picked open the last stringy bit of skin that held his lips together.

“You have to kill me,” he said, the moment he could speak.

“What in the Maker's name?”

“You said you would kill me if I became a demon.”

Cassandra instinctively checked for her sword. It was in reach, leaning against the wall by her bedroll. She didn't move to take it. There was no evidence that Cole was a demon. She'd thought so at first but as the months wore on her beliefs changed. Rigid adherence to Chantry doctrine had not helped the templars, had produced Lord Seeker Lambert, and Lord Seeker Lucius after him. Demons did not ask to be killed. And Cole had been... tortured at the very least. Again.

“Oh Maker, what happened here?” Cole said. “What did I let happen? You couldn't have stopped it, Cassandra, but I need you to stop me now.”

Cassandra crouched in front of him. She reached to take his hand, to comfort him, but he flinched back. There were ruddy stains on his tunic, and a thick smell of blood and burning. “Who did this?” she asked. “Was it the man who...?” She winced. The news of why Cole was in the infirmary had been a sword to the gut and a maul to the temple all at once. “Did he...?” She shied away from the word like a coward. “Did he injure you again?”

“Yes, but not like you mean it. Maker, Maker, how could you allow this to happen? A dent in the wall and bruised knuckles. Anger you thought you'd learned to keep in check. I know you would have saved me, if you could have.”

If she could have. Cassandra swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Go back to the infirmary, Cole. I will stay with you.”

“No. You don't understand. I don't know how to help anymore.”

“I doubt that.” It wasn't quite comfort. She had never been good with words, and she stupidly, selfishly, wished that Cole had come to Varric with this. As infuriating as the dwarf was, he was good with words. And good with Cole.

“Varric won't kill me.”

But he thought that she would. “You aren't a demon, Cole.”

“Not now. Not yet.” Cole lowered his head and gripped the back of his neck, biting his nails into the skin there. “Helping is what I am. But I can't– I can't– I can't– There's too much of me in the hurt. It all gets twisted up when I try to see.”

“Anyone would feel that way, after what happened.”

“You mean that anyone human would feel that way, but I'm not one!” His voice rose and fell in odd patterns, vacillating between a rushed murmur and a hysterical screech. All with his head buried in his chest and his neck gripped in his hands. “When I try... The kitchen girl drank a potion because she didn't want the baby growing inside her, but when she did nothing would grow. When I tried to help... I... I... Something inside me that I didn't want. Was too familiar. I couldn't– Fingers in my hair. Air on my neck. You look much better like this Cole. The memories bleed out.”

“You need time.” Her voice wavered, as the words made her sick to her stomach. How long had this... this monster been doing those things to Cole? “To recover.”

“There isn't time!” He uncurled to scream that. The rims of his eyes were red from crying, tears streaking him from cheek to chin. The rest of him was chalk pale where it wasn't burned or scarred. He looked every bit the ghost he'd thought he was, holding a dagger aloft still covered in his stringy skin.

“Get up,” she barked. Something in Cole responded to the authority in her voice. He jolted to his feet. A reaction she didn't want to examine, didn't want to feel any more sick about the situation than she already did. He cringed at his own response and she tried not to think about it. “There will be no more of this killing you nonsense.”

She would not put another friend down. Cole may be just as scarred and battered as Daniel was. They put a demon inside me. But that was a matter of mercy. There was hope for Cole, even if he didn't believe it.

“I can't hold on anymore, Cassandra.”

“You can and you will.” Cassandra snatched her sword and shield, just in case. “You say that you don't want to hurt people, but what about the people your death would hurt?”

Cassandra dragged Cole out through the Keep and into the tavern. She knew she'd find Varric there, taking solace in drink and company. He'd barely left there but to visit Cole in the infirmary. And there he was, with a qunari-sized cup of ale and a group of recruits enraptured by whatever story he was telling. A story that played fast and loose with the truth, no doubt. He cut himself off when he saw Cole.

“Kid, am I gonna have to tie you to that sick bed?”

“No.” Cole shuddered at the notion. 

Varric's face clouded with anger and horror for only a moment, before it softened when he looked at Cole again. “Give us a minute?” he asked the recruits. They only had to take a look at Cole to see this was no time for revelry. They slunk away with their drinks.

“Is that the poor kid who got fucked? Andraste's tits, he looks younger than my son.”

Cassandra hid her expression by turning her head. She didn't want to see Varric's either. Delivering the news to him had been hard enough. The words had came out of her throat like they were scalding her. And Varric had rebuffed her awkward attempts at comfort, turned instead to his quill to write... They had tried to keep the matter quiet. For Cole's sake, and to stop panic spreading through the ranks. But gossip couldn't be contained in such a large organisation. Not when the members of the inner circle were already the subject of such speculation.

“What now?” Varric asked.

“I need Cassandra to kill me but she won't.”

Varric gave an exasperated laugh. “She's unreasonable like that. Take a seat.” With as much gentleness as she could muster, Cassandra forced Cole into a seat beside Varric, and wedged him between them with her body.

“I'm a demon,” Cole insisted. “She said she would kill me if I became one, and now she won't.” He sounded petulant. As if Cassandra was denying him a treat.

“He look like a demon to you, Seeker?”

“No.” Nor did he feel like one.

“She's the expert, kid.”

“You don't understand,” Cole said. “I can't control it. I want to hurt things. People.”

“Kid...” Varric leaned his shoulder against Cole's. Cole didn't flinch from that touch. Leaned into it. “Do you remember after the templar?”

“Yes. I wanted to hit everything.”

“That's right. And we talked about a little thing called adolescence. You didn't hit anything because you didn't need to.”

“This isn't like that. I want to hurt them. I want them to hurt the way I hurt even though it doesn't stop me hurting. I want to find the cracks – Anthony, Bartrand – and pour words inside until they split open.”

“That's all part of being a person, kid.”

“It is.” Anthony. Cassandra focused on him. On how she'd felt after his death. The way her anger had bent everything around it like a prism bent light. Every time she saw a mage the blood boiled in her veins. It was consuming, directionless, a force of destruction she'd had to harness again and again so it couldn't bolt from her in rashness and stupidity. “We are all fallible. It doesn't mean that we should die.”

Varric pushed the cup of ale toward Cole. He stared at it balefully.

“I can't help anymore,” he said. “I'm too loud.”

“That changes, kid.”

“I can only hear if I try. I can only–” Cole jumped to his feet. “Sera,” he cried, and leapt over the table.

***

Arse-licking, nug-humping, cock-rotted, fuckstain. Sera knew it was him. Knew as soon as she saw Dorian fall out of his chambers. She couldn't find the surgeon, but finding Lavellan would help Dorian more than leeches. That smug elfy arsehole wouldn't have a cock to put in her friends after she was finished with him! Beardy and baldy would have worked it out too. And Lavellan knew that they knew. Why else would he be saddling a hart in the middle of the night? She made herself as quiet and invisible as possible, crouching on the top floor of the stables. He hadn't seen her yet. Wouldn't until he had at least three arrows in him if she had her way. She notched one, aimed it for the ankle of the foot he was trying to put in a stirrup. Loosed it.

It bounced off a barrier. Fucking tricksy mages. She fired another and another. She didn't have any of her elixirs with her but she knew if you hit them long enough mage barriers went away. Lavellan ignored her. Just let the arrows bounce while he got into the saddle. She shot an arrow in front of the hart so it bucked. Then jumped down from the roof to tackle Lavellan right off its back. He was a mage, so squishy, and his barrier shattered with the impact of both the ground and Sera coming down on top of him. She shoved him under the frightened hart's feet but the bastard just rolled right under it without taking a hoof to the face or anything.

Well, she could be tricky too. A leaping shot fired over the hart made Lavellan duck and run. She moved into stealth as soon as her feet hit the ground. Appeared right behind him. But he twisted around and knocked her on her arse with a mind blast – she hated those. Like a headache and a brain freeze all at once. Then hit her with something harder. Her nose crunched up and blood filled her mouth. Her vision flooded back just in time to dodge a chunk of ice he lobbed at her.

“We all know what you did,” she screamed, firing another arrow. She was running out. Only two more.

He tried to burn her. She dodged right, he caught her on the other side with a wave of force magic that bent her arm the wrong way round and then twisted it up again into its socket. She bit the ragged scream back, turned it into a snarl. He was already mounted by the time she righted herself. Already riding away. She grabbed her bow and fired – with the wrong hand. The other one could just about hold the bow steady. She wasn't as good a shot like this but she hit him. In the shoulder, when she'd been aiming for his neck, but still hit him. She grinned a bloody grin when he choked out a scream. He didn't slow, just turned back and hit her with a sleep spell.

***

There was nothing to do but chase after Cole. They found an unconscious Master Dennet outside, the doors to the stables open, and Sera with an obviously broken arm face-down in the hay. She was alive, at least, and conscious. She looked, if possible, even worse than Cole. Her face was puffy and covered in snot, tears, and blood from a bust nose.

“Got the shitbag in the shoulder,” she said, when Cassandra and Varric righted her. “But he got away.”

Blackwall and Solas came in at a run. Sera wobbled away from Cassandra and Varric and tried to drag a horse out of its stall one-handed.

“Come on then!” she said, to their startled faces. “Let's get after him.”

“Who?” Cassandra asked.

“The Inquisitor,” Cole said. “Can't face them all at once. Have to get somewhere safe.”

“That raping fuckhole!” Sera's face twisted in anger. The raised voice made her horse back away. “Let's chop his balls off,” she said more quietly, so she could coax the horse back out. “He won't be fiddling anyone else without them.”

Lavellan. Every nerve in Cassandra's body deadened at the same time. Only habit kept her standing. No. That wasn't– that couldn't be true. First the Chantry, then the templars, then the Seekers, not the Inquisition as well. Her body saw the urgency even if her mind stalled on that. The others were grabbing weapons, armour, and mounts too. Blackwall was arguing that Sera wasn't going anywhere like that, while she argued more loudly that 'baldy could fix her up on the way'. Cole was in no fit state either, but he was already on a horse with his daggers strapped to his back. Without Vivienne, Dorian, and Bull they needed the numbers.

Lavellan. The man she'd named Inquisitor. Lavellan. The man she'd given a sword to.

She brought her own horse from canter to gallop as fast as she was able to. The way she burst out of Skyhold startled the gate guards, but Lavellan had to still be near enough to be caught up. She could see him. A mere speck but the distance wasn't impassable yet. Not working the horse and her muscles to their fullest. The snow and the steep mountain slowed her but those were obstacles Lavellan also had to face. The gait on his horse was odd. She noted the arrow Sera had put in his shoulder with satisfaction.

She was gaining on him. Gaining. Gaining. He was thirty feet away. Twenty. Ten. She unleashed Wrath of Heaven, stunning both him and his hart. He toppled and rolled so the hart didn't crush him. She put down her head and rushed for him. She'd drag whatever was left after her horse trampled him back to Skyhold.

He raised his glowing hand and opened a rift above her head. The blinding green flash made her horse throw her, and by the time she'd righted herself, Lavellan was back on his horse and demons were pouring down on top of her.

Cassandra let out a howl of rage, overpowering the demons with a spell purge that barely let a wisp form. But there was another wave of them immediately. Rage this time, to reflect her mood. More than she'd ever seen from one rift at once. And there'd be another. And another. Spitting out of the Fade until the rift was sealed. She could not pursue. Not without leaving it to fire off demons within walking distance of Skyhold.

She held until the others arrived, cutting down the demons around her.

“Someone needs to go after Lavellan,” she yelled, slicing through a shade.

“Me.” That was Cole. He glowed – searing Cassandra's eyes with gold light. Head to toe, like the spirit they'd seen in the Fade wearing the Divine's face. Varric let out a startled Kid!. Lesser shades quailed from Cole as he rode through them. They could not afford to make much of it, however, with an open rift in front of them.

“Sera,” Cassandra barked. She, Varric, Solas, and Blackwall would have to hold the demons. “Go back to Skyhold. Tell Commander Cullen of the situation.”

“Right!”

Sera covered them with arrows as far as she could. An open rift. Lavellan had escaped. Cassandra poured her anger into the fight. But they couldn't fight it forever. And Lavellan must have known it would take everything they had to deal with this. She took her rage out on a despair demon, and readied herself to face the next.


	6. It Has to be Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic rape (M!Lavellan/Carver) and torture.

A rift. It had been impossible to miss the talk of it, even though people whispered around Dorian as if he were on his death bed. It rattled through Skyhold like an ill wind. A rift. Demons. A rift. If Dorian stood on the battlements, he could see the green glow of it. It was surrounded by another glow, wrapped around it like a bubble. A barrier that the recruited mages were maintaining, if Dorian was any judge. He couldn't summon anything but ambivalence about it. After the way Lavellan had brutalised the inner circle, it barely came as a surprise.

 

Speaking of the inner circle, all of those who remained in Skyhold were occupied with it. Not Dorian, of course. Whenever Dorian tried to lift a finger someone or other would appear to guide him back to bed and lecture him about taking time to recover. Like what Lavellan did had taken not only his dignity but his usefulness as well. He'd only managed to give his minders the slip by filling his bed with a summoned spirit.

 

He made his way to the war table. All of Lavellan's former advisers were there, in the middle of a heated debate which Dorian interrupted.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen said. “You shouldn't be--”

 

“There will be plenty of time for hand-wringing later.” He gave Cullen a look that brooked no argument. He was fit and able-bodied, and he'd not wallow while everyone else dealt with the crisis. “Has there...? Is there any sign of Bull?”

 

“None.” Leliana looked less pinched and tired than the others. He supposed she dealt in these interpersonal atrocities every day, and kept a better lid on it. Had she...? Had she known? Had she known every time Lavellan touched Cole, when he violated Bull, when he...? Had she known and never said a word for the greater good? “Most of my agents are spread between the rift, Corypheus, and Lavellan. Those that I can spare... Wherever Bull is, he does not want to be found.”

 

“He is a seven foot qunari who is badly injured.”

 

“And talented. He would not be part of the inquisition otherwise.”

 

True. It was hard to separate Bull the spy from the big lug who shared his bed, but Bull was subtler than he seemed. He'd never have survived the horrors of Seheron if he wasn't. “And Lavellan?”

 

“By the time we realised he was fleeing, he was already long gone. We are looking, Dorian.”

 

“Indeed,” Josephine said. “I've contacted all of the leaders in Southern Thedas, disguising my enquiries as concern for the inquisitor. As far as anyone knows, he has simply become overwhelmed by his position. If he boards a ship, carriage, or aravel, we will hear of it.” She indicated a route with her finger. “Our best guess is that he's making his way through the Frostbacks, where the terrain would hinder our efforts to find him.”

 

“I have every soldier I can spare combing them,” Cullen said. “And some that I can't. I'll join them personally when we have the rift situation under control.”

 

“And what can I do until then?” Dorian asked. “And to forestall any objections, I'm perfectly healthy and able to fight. Give me something to do lest I be forced to make my own entertainment.”

 

Cullen opened his mouth, no doubt to voice further objections. Leliana silenced him with a raised finger. “You know Bull more intimately than any of us. Help us to track him.”

 

***

 

“Wake up.”

 

The voice was pleasantly deep, and unfamiliar. Lavellan snapped his eyes open. He'd passed out in the snow, the way he had after the attack on Haven. The Inquisition had fought to save him then. Now they wanted his head. He forced himself to focus. Assess the situation. The arrow Sera had landed in his shoulder was gone. A poultice had been applied to his wound, which had knitted enough to allow some movement of his arm. Feeling was returning to his extremities in the form of pins and needles, which meant he'd avoided frostbite or anything more serious.

 

A singularly attractive elf was standing over him. Dark-skinned where the skin wasn't broken by white markings – _was that lyrium?_ – and pure white hair. Definitely lyrium. Its presence made the anchor flicker on his hand, his magic stirring too, a beast waking from hibernation. The elf eyed it warily.

 

They were in a small cave, mercifully out of the snow. Another man sat hunched by a campfire. This one a human. He was wearing templar armour, though the sword of mercy had melted into an amorphous blob on his breastplate.

 

“Where is Hawke?” the elf said.

 

“Weisshaupt.” Hawke had been... charming and handsome. Lavellan would have liked the opportunity to bed him but there'd been no chance after being launched into the Fade and the subsequent mess with the Grey Wardens. Gears turned sluggishly in Lavellan's freezing brain, and he realised he did recognise the elf. By reputation if not by sight. “You're Fenris.” Hadn't Varric's letters reached him? “Hawke moved on a while ago.”

 

“Of course he bloody did,” the human said. He glanced up from whatever he was preoccupied with over the fire. “Weisshaupt? That's a Grey Warden thing, isn't it?”

 

“It is.” Fenris didn't turn to acknowledge the human. Instead, he watched Lavellan. There was a huge greatsword on his back. Bigger than he was. The effect would have been comical if he hadn't hefted it effortlessly. “Their stronghold in the Anderfels.”

 

“The fucking Anderfels!”

 

It couldn't hurt for Lavellan to appear meek. With a groan of exertion, he managed to sit. “Thank you for tending to me.”

 

Fenris said nothing. The human, again, looked up from the fire. “Without that thing on your hand we're all buggered.”

 

Lavellan twisted to get a better look at him. He was handsome enough, big but young enough to be a little rangy. A little more muscular than Dorian whose body had been every bit as beautiful as he'd bragged. Under all that armour, this human was probably quite a sight. “And you are?”

 

“Of course you don't recognise me. Carver. Carver Hawke.”

 

“Ah, the Champion's brother.”

 

“You know, I'm starting to think that's my name.”

 

Perhaps Lavellan should have been able to guess. They had the same ink black hair, though Carver appeared to have far less of it. Even the backs of Hawke's arms had been covered in it. There were other similarities too, a certain structure to the face... Carver paid him no more attention as he went back to tending a cauldron over the fire, giving Lavellan plenty of opportunity to admire him.

 

Which he cut short at the realisation Fenris was watching him watch Carver. Lavellan didn't like the look on his face. Like he could tell what Lavellan was thinking and he judged every word. But he couldn't know. Not really. The Inquistion's lies couldn't have reached him out here, and admiring a well-built young man was hardly unusual.

 

“Here.” Carver thrust a hot tin mug at him. “Drink this.” It was some simple broth but it smelled ambrosial. Lavellan stomach grumbled mournfully, remembering the last decadent meal at Skyhold he'd barely touched. He hadn't eaten in almost a day. Carver handed another mug to Fenris, who took it without a word and didn't take his eyes off Lavellan.

 

Lavellan played the invalid for the rest of the day. Mostly he slept, while Carver and Fenris went about their business: discussing plans for travel to the Anderfels, avoiding the areas with known rifts, and finding a way to get in touch with Hawke... They were out of earshot a lot of the time and the talk was deeply tedious and repetitive when they weren't. When they questioned how Lavellan had ended up out here alone, he fed them a story about being cut off from the rest of his companions by Red Templars and they appeared to believe him.

 

They too had to sleep, eventually. Lavellan found he was still to weak to sneak away and brave the snow again. Instead he contented himself with watching Carver. Fenris stood sentry in the mouth of the cave, fully armoured and with his broadsword at the ready. Carver, however, stripped to his underclothes. They weren't as revealing as Lavellan would have liked. A shirt and breeches. But they confirmed that Carver was every bit as muscular as Lavellan suspected.

 

***

 

Though they fed Lavellan three times a day and allowed him to heal, Carver and Fenris avoided Lavellan otherwise. They seemed equally disinterested in each other. Despite that, whenever Lavellan tried to sneak a glance at Carver, Fenris was there. Glaring at Lavellan as if he'd done something unspeakable. Carver himself noticed neither, continuing to go about his business in an oddly guileless way for a man of his size. He'd bend over right in front of Lavellan in nothing but the thin breeches usually used to protect his skin from his armour to retrieve something heavy, seemingly unaware of the view it presented.

 

Lavellan's arm continued to heal. His strength began to return. But not enough that he could risk the mountains again without a mount. On the fourth day, they'd been set upon by a group of Venatori. Carver and Fenris had engaged them in a fight that was both brutally short and spectacularly violent. Carver cast smites and silences that made their spells fizzle out mid-burst and turned their staffs to useless kindling. Fenris had... become intangible somehow... bathed in a blue light that burned Lavellan's retinas. He went _through_ the Venatori, bursting through body after body and somehow not being touched by the gore. Any who did manage to get within reach of him, he promptly cleaved in two with his broadsword.

 

The barest step robbed Lavellan of his breath. All he'd been able to do was stand out of the way and cast barriers. Something it had rapidly became obvious neither of them required.

 

The tedium of lying in a bedroll in a featureless cave with two strangers was beginning to get to him. Even his imagination was no reprieve. Thoughts of Dorian or Cole were quickly curtailed when he caught another of Fenris' glowers. And even looking at Carver had lost its shine, since he never engaged Lavellan beyond offering him food.

 

On the sixth or seventh day, a red templar behemoth had wandered near their camp. A surviving straggler from one of the groups the inquisition had cleaned up, most likely. Fenris had dispatched it by himself.

 

He reminded him of... Lavellan's Keeper had a cat. She'd found it somewhere and said it'd be handy to keep the foodstuffs protected from mice. It was a beautiful creature with dense fur three inches thick but possessed of the foulest temper imaginable. It often sent the clan's children off wailing with scratches on their faces and hands when they'd tried to pet it. And when it did find a mouse, it spread the pathetic thing from one end of the camp to the other, entrails and undigested fur underfoot for days. Fenris had done something similar to the templar. The snow was red-streaked for miles.

 

And this was apparently not unusual because Carver's only response was a disgruntled: “Someone's going to notice that.”

 

Lavellan didn't look at Carver anymore when Fenris was around.

 

***

 

“You won't survive.”

 

Bull had been expecting someone to find him but not this soon, and he'd expected it to be one of Leliana's people, not Cole. All that hiding from birds for nothing. “I'm doing just fine, kid.”

 

Cole did that spirit thing where he disappeared and _poof_ ed back into existence in front of him. Since eerily calling “you won't survive” from behind him apparently hadn't been creepy enough, he had to look extra creepy too. He always looked kinda off even if his wonky features had grown on Bull after a while, now he was glowing. A soft, golden light like a hearth that would have been pretty in other circumstances. He'd somehow gotten a haircut since the last time Bull had seen him, which he probably wouldn't even have noticed if the glow didn't seem to have some kind of... force?... to it. Something that was lifting the curled ends of it away from his face. His features looked much fuller and much less human than they ever had.

 

“You aren't fine, the Iron Bull. _H_ _i_ _ssrad_.”

 

And did Cole just call him a liar? Bull laughed and wished he hadn't. It jarred something in his chest and there was plenty jarred there to start with. Bull trudged forward, dragging his maul behind him. He could go around Cole. Through him if he had to. “He got to Dorian, didn't he?”

 

Cole didn't move. Didn't answer him directly. Just stood there glowing and being all freaky. “You think your life won't matter if you can stop Lavellan but Dorian doesn't.”

 

Bull knew. He'd known the second Lavellan knocked him off a cliff that he couldn't protect Dorian anymore, if he ever could have. Knew that Lavellan would use him as leverage and have Dorian... have Dorian... Just like he'd known when Lavellan said _open your mouth and Dorian won't have to_ that the only way Dorian would really be safe was if Lavellan didn't have a dick to hurt him with, and he bit down. But that had been an empty gesture too. Lavellan recoiled before his teeth could cut a groove into the filth he'd shoved into his mouth.

 

And in revenge Lavellan had done things with his magic Bull hadn't seen him do to their enemies. Things that would make a magister quake.

 

“The insides of your lungs burn. _Did he...?_ You remember fire but it's as foggy as everything else. Your insides are bruised. _Is that...? Is that his whole arm?_ < Barely felt among all the other aches but the humiliation burns like your lungs. _He'll do it to Dorian. He'll do this to Dorian. I have to get away_. It meant a lot to protect Dorian then. Why won't you do it now?”

 

“It's too late to protect Dorian!”

 

Shit, he regretted that. Talking was like spewing hot sand. Shouting like drinking lava. There was a deep, wrong disconnect at every tiny movement. The way his leg clicked the wrong way without his brace but all over. Even in his jaw. Even when he moved his eyeball. He was aware of his insides, his organs in a way he never had been before, hyper aware of them the way he'd been when Lavellan had been intent on rupturing every one, keeping him just alive and awake enough to suffer. His heart didn't beat right. Felt like it would burst every time it tried to push blood around his body. Every time he saw a part of his body it startled him. Bruised and swollen, like he'd been built from blackened scraps of meat no one would dare feed a dog.

 

“Qamek,” Cole said. “ _Qa_ mek. Qa _mek_. Qa-mek. Qa. Mek.”

 

Bull wondered if he was hallucinating. Going completely round the fucking twist wouldn't be unexpected after everything.

 

“Syllables split into nonsense. Slipping, slipping, until all you know is that you have to reach it no matter how little is left at the end. Why, the Iron Bull? You won't be able to bring it back.”

 

If he didn't reach his contact, and Cole might just be right about that, they had instructions to get the qamek to Josephine. If he did manage it, they'd get it to Skyhold faster. Be able to use it faster. Stop Lavellan faster. It was too late for Dorian but maybe it would be just in time for someone else.

 

“It won't work. Solas and Dorian thought of tranquility too. Solas is soft and subtle until sharp bursts burn him. _I'd wield the brand myself if it would work_ and _our people_ _are supposed to be above this_. Qamek sings the same song as lyrium and the mark drowns out them both.”

 

Qamek had to work. Had to. Otherwise he'd been bartering favours for nothing. Turning up people with connections still strong enough to the qunari and smugglers damn fool enough to steal it for nothing. Had corrupted a viddathari for nothing. No, Cole couldn't know it was useless, even with his wiggy spirit powers. He'd get it and he'd give it to Dagna. She'd find a way to make it work on that fucking bastard no matter what he had on his hand.

 

“It's a mistake, the Iron Bull. Skyhold needs you. Dorian needs you. I can stop Lavellan. I was going to stop Lavellan but I had to stop you first.”

 

No. _No_. Cole hadn't been able to stop him at the beginning, hadn't been able to stop him from escalating, and there was no way Bull was letting him get back in Lavallen's grasp even if he had to knock Cole's weird glowing ass out.

 

“I think I should feel sorry for this, the Iron Bull. I used to feel things like that.” Cole _poof_ ed right in front of him. Didn't give him a chance to lift his maul before he had his hand closed around Bull's skull. “Remember.”

 

***

 

It was just about tolerable until the bath. Carver handed Lavellan another meal of hard tack and soup, and he very distinctly wrinkled his nose. It hardly seemed fair that after a week of barely moving Lavellan was so rank, but he still sweated and he hadn't seen a bucket of water or a change of clothes since they'd hauled him out of whatever snowdrift he'd fainted in. To venture outside on his own would be suicide even without the Inquisition on his heels. Though his shoulder was healing, it was still stiff and sore, and in lieu of proper healing magic it would remain that way for days if not weeks. He'd suffered worse damage still from the cold. He was still fighting something in his throat and chest that the meagre healing potions Carver and Fenris supplied soothed but couldn't quite destroy. So he'd no choice but to lie down stinking more and more each day. Carver wrinkled his nose again when he collected Lavellan's dishes.

 

“This dank cave hardly comes with fitted plumbing,” he snapped.

 

Carver's eyebrows shot up. He looked around. Fenris had left on a mission to restock their supplies an hour ago and still wasn't back. “Come on then,” Carver said. “I could do with a wash too.”

 

Lavellan stood. The effort of that dizzied him and nearly sent him back onto the bedroll but it passed just as quickly.

 

“I could carry you,” Carver said.

 

Lavellan could walk. He'd been sure to circuit the cave a couple of times a day just to ensure his leg muscles didn't atrophy. It made him sweat like he'd run up every flight of stairs in Skyhold but he could do it. “Do not dare try to pick me up.”

 

Carver sighed. “I used to think elves were so good-natured.”

 

Yes, it would be terribly convenient for the humans if that were true. If they were the simpering nature-lovers who danced nude in the moonlight like the most idiot of their kind assumed of the Dalish. Whether he was bad-natured or not, Carver led him downhill a short distance from the cave, walking at a glacial pace so as not to tire Lavellan too quickly. The spot they arrived at was where a combination of ice run-off and a natural dip in the rock had formed a shallow pool.

 

“That water is icy cold.”

 

“Sorry, your Majesty, but I couldn't pull a solid gold bathing chamber out of my arse.”

 

That hadn't been what he meant. Fenris and Carver were both perfectly clean so presumably they'd been making do with this, and Lavellan was certainly no stranger to the hardships of the road. But dunking himself in ice cold water would exacerbate whatever sickness was living in his chest. He was already shivering despite being dressed for the climate. Luckily, though he was ill, he was rested enough for simple spells.

 

Lavellan dipped his hand in the water and let forth a heat spell that turned the whole pool just the right side of scalding.

 

“My brother used to show off like that when we bathed together,” Carver said. “Freeze the water or turn it scalding hot so I'd leap out of the tub.”

 

The idea of the Hawke brothers bathing together was intriguing until Lavellan realised he likely meant when they were both far too tiny to hold Lavellan's interest. Still, that was the most conversation Carver had ventured since they met. “You don't have to join me,” Lavellan said. He gingerly removed his armour, then sped up as the cold touched his skin.

 

Carver hesitated, his natural truculence obviously warring with the desire for the first luxury he'd likely seen in weeks. Luxury won out and he shed his layers of heavy plate.

 

Unsupervised by Fenris, Lavellan enjoyed the view from his vantage point, already neck-deep in the hot water. And it was quite the view. Heaving that massive sword had honed Carver's body into the kind of musculature only effort could achieve. Though he could almost rival Bull for height, his body was more compact and without the layer of fat that, although Lavellan was rather fond of, obscured Bull's abdomen. Lavellan rather enjoyed the sight of the dark hair around his cock too. He hadn't known humans had that until he'd seen his first one naked – a freckled, redheaded farmhand who'd passed out drunk in the forest near their camp. The stripe on his crotch had been as briht orange as his hair.

 

All in all, Carver looked rather like the sordid pictures of the old Tevinter gods that would occasionally adorn ancient vases. Very odd for a nation apparently so opposed to homosexuality.

 

For his size, there was something guileless about Carver. Dorian was aware of the attention his attractiveness commanded and wielded it like another staff. Carver moved more like Cole, so blind to the possibility that someone might admire him that he didn't bother to hide his nudity.

 

Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. Cole moved differently now, pinching his legs together, hunching in on himself, hiding whatever he could with both of his hands...

 

When Carver slid into the water he made the most hilarious face. Trying to maintain a scowl while obvious enjoyment consumed the rest of his features, as if he'd been determined not to like any of this from the start. The scowl was soon scoured from his face. He stretched his body, lifted his chin and arched his back, hissing at the heat, and Lavellan would have taken him right then and there if he wasn't certain Carver would overpower him.

 

The sooner he was well enough for the bigger spells, the better.

 

Although... There were subtler methods. A man so obviously in his brother's shadow probably pined for affection.

 

Carver had positioned himself as far away from Lavellan as possible. He'd closed his eyes, basking in the heat. Lavellan edged around the pool until he was beside him. “I don't suppose you have any menthol among your supplies?”

 

Carver opened his eyes. “You what?”

 

“Menthol or peppermint or...” This earned him only a blank look. “It soothes sore throats and chests.”

 

“Nothing like that. Fenris will come back with some health potions–”

 

He stalled because Lavellan had noticed a crude drawing of a mabari tattooed on his pectoral muscle and traced it with his fingers. “Does this mean anything?”

 

Carver rolled his shoulder, brushing off Lavellan's touch as subtly as he could. “Not like the ones your lot put on your faces. I used to say it meant strength.”

 

“And now?”

 

“And now it means I was drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

Lavellan debated making another excuse to touch Carver but often humans assumed that elves were naturally more tactile. Instead, he squeezed Carver's thigh. The muscle jumped under his hand and Lavellan stroked it. “We have a while before Fenris returns...”

 

Carver blushed beautifully, face, neck, and chest. “I'm not– I don't– I like women.”

 

Lavellan tamped down on his instinct to gouge his nails into Carver's thigh for rejecting him. Instead, he pushed away from the bank and returned to his original position.

 

***

 

They'd found Bull. Unconscious. Half-dead but half-alive too. Dorian melted with relief. Almost literally. He'd never been such a sloppy, snotty, disgusting mess in his entire life. He was making a scene by bawling all over Bull's poor, battered body and he couldn't bring himself to care. He was apparently so pitiful that the healers didn't try to shift him, just worked around him while they tried to make Bull slightly less battered.

 

The moment Bull woke up he was going to get an earful about leaving his sick bed. Being a bloody fool. But that rather depended on him waking up.

 

_Please let him wake up._

 

***

 

The healers worked day and night, a constant procession of them through the private room Josephine had commandeered for Bull once he was able to be moved. Dorian sat him with him during the day and slept beside him at night but for brief interludes of fighting demons and reinforcing Skyhold's barriers. Vivienne, Varric, Cullen, and Cassandra, each tried to coax Dorian away. When they couldn't, they brought him books and meals instead. Cullen brought the chess board up once but found Dorian to distracted to play.

 

Every day, Bull looked more and more like himself. The healers took care of the worst of the bruising, swelling, and scarring. Then the least of it, until Bull looked perfectly fine.

 

_Was_ perfectly fine, according to the healers. They could no longer find anything physically wrong, and Bull still wouldn't wake up. There were whispers that the sleep was magical but if it was it wasn't anything the Southern mages had ever seen. Dorian did his own examinations when they were alone but nothing suggested Northern magic either. He wasn't a blood thrall nor did he show any signs of being under a spell.

 

Dorian tried talking to him. Reading to him. Reciting the most awful puns he could think of at him. Pleading with him. Screaming at him, when all else failed. He remained dead to the world.

 

The rift situation was equally hopeless. They'd managed it so far with minimal casualties but they simply didn't have the resources to fight demons forever. And sooner or later, they were going to have to direct essential forces away from dealing with it and take the fight to Corypheus instead.

 

***

 

Lavellan had stopped counting days but he must have been stuck with Fenris and Carver a while now. He'd finally rid himself of the infection that had been sapping most of his strength and his arm was strong enough to move his staff unhindered. He was waiting, now, for his opportunity to slip away. Carver and Fenris had noticed him growing more active and were preparing to move themselves, packing up their things and demolishing all but the essential parts of the camp. Lavellan could continue with them towards the Anderfels. He remained the only person in Thedas able to close rifts and travel had been dangerous enough beforehand. They wouldn't welcome him, exactly, but they'd take the assistance. Instead, he would travel towards the Korcari Wilds where Corypheus' forces were rumoured to be amassing – a rumour gleaned from Fenris' trips into the cities to restock. Fleeing seemed rather pointless if there wouldn't be a world left to flee to. He might very well run into the Inquisition, but they'd be equally hard-pressed to deny his assistance. And after Corypheus was dealt with, he'd be able to slip away in the confusion.

 

When Fenris left for a final supply run, Lavellan and Carver were ambushed. A pack of shades made it all the way into the cave without notice. The tight conditions weren't ideal for any fight but since Lavellan and Carver were taken by surprise, they had them pinned without weapons. Lavellan called down enough ice, fire, and force without the amplification of his staff, and he could hear the swing of Carver's sword, but it was hard-going. Dozens of them poured in. So many that Lavellan's wounded shoulder began to ache with remembered pain.

 

When finally, there were no more, he leaned on his staff to catch his breath. Then jerked to action when he saw Carver. He was slumped against the wall, sword no longer in his hand.

 

Lavellan prioritised matters, as he'd had to in his dealings with the inquisition. Those shades had to have come from somewhere and it was no use treating the injured if they were only going to be deluged by demons again. There were no rifts nearby. The shades were the work of a venatori, casting from a ledge above the opening of the cave. He'd used his mana on the shades and left none to defend himself. He was easily dealt with.

 

When Lavellan returned to Carver, he saw just how bad the injury was. One of the shades had clawed him and gouged three long streaks into his chest. It had cut through his armour and into the flesh underneath. Carver had managed to finish the fight but now he was pale and growing paler.

 

Lavellan helped him to peel away his breastplate, then his undershirt. It was worse than he'd thought. The wounds were so deep he could see the fat glistening under the blood, the bone on the deepest, and they didn't appear to want to stop bleeding. Lavellan did what he could with health potions and poultices until the wound closed. There was nothing he could do about the blood loss. Carver was clearly light-headed from it, limbs and head lolling on his torso like a doll's. Lavellan removed the rest of his heavy armour, which he was too weak and befuddled to question, and laid him down on the bedroom.

 

“Food,” he said. “Need food or... something sweet.”

 

Lavellan took hold of the waistband of Carver's breeches. “And what will you do for it?”

 

“What...?” Carver grabbed at his breeches. The grip was weak, the tips of his fingers turning white from lack of circulation. “Give me my pack or I'll pass out.” He was an enjoyable sight even smeared with blood from chest to navel, the three new scars etched into the cords of his muscles. Lavellan pulled Carver's breeches down to his thighs. When he found he couldn't keep hold of them, he covered his genitals with both hands. “What?” he said, again. “What...?” as Lavellan dragged his breeches to his ankles and, finally, off. “What are you doing?”

 

“Hold still.”

 

He didn't, of course. He kicked out, without strength. His foot tapped Lavellan in the midriff. The exertion of it made his eyes roll back in his head but he clung to consciousness. Good. It had been too long but Lavellan would still prefer to fuck an awake man. Carver attempted to struggle again when Lavellan pushed his hands away from his genitals, uncovering him. Another desperate burst of effort and he landed a glancing blow on Lavellan's cheek. Impressive for someone in such a state. His lips were beginning to turn blue. Lavellan was all too familiar with blood loss, and by now Carver's extremities would be going numb.

 

“You're only wasting your energy.” Lavellan pushed Carver's thick arms back to the ground. The relative differences in their physical strength didn't matter when Carver was this weak, but Lavellan was not without muscles of his own. He wrapped his hand around Carver's throat and squeezed just hard enough that he knew the potential for strangulation was there. “All you have to do, Carver, is stay still.” Too much of the whites of Carver's eyes were visible. Like a spooked halla. “If you can't do that, I'll be forced to reopen your wound so deep that I can see my seed spill inside of you firsthand.”

 

Carver gagged and his eyes rolled back again. He had already been fairly limp but he grew more limp. Lavellan was disappointed to learn it was because he actually had passed out, rather than did as he was told. He'd underestimated Carver's tenacity. Neither Dorian nor Bull had passed out. Though Lavellan supposed he hadn't made them bleed as much as the shades had made Carver.

 

Still, it gave Lavellan the opportunity to arrange Carver as he liked. He'd have to tie him up, like Dorian. He improvised with bedclothes, bandages, and Carver's own breeches. Tied his hands behind his back at the wrists, bent his legs and tied his thighs to his calves to keep them bent. Then connected the tie on his wrists to the ties on his legs by another long length to limit his movements. All so tight they'd cut deep if he thrashed and he'd have a reminder of the ties days after he escaped them. They displayed him perfectly. All his human height and girth, pectoral muscles thrust forward by the way his back was forced to arch to accommodate his hands, thick cock framed nicely by his bound thighs.

 

As distasteful as it was to fuck an unconscious man, it would be impossible for Lavellan to enjoy fucking a corpse and Carver's breathing was dangerously shallow. So Lavellan yanked open Carver's mouth and poured a few more healing potions, sugar water, and tonics down his throat until he started to revive.

 

And revive he did, struggling and jerking his limbs, every muscle bulging as he tried to burst out of his restraints. Lavellan palmed his cock and watched.

 

“What the...?” Carver overbalanced himself and ended up on his side, just as restrained as before. Lavellan nudged him and he fell almost onto his front, one leg crushed underneath him and the other at an awkward angle. “Get off me! I'll _kill_ you, sicko!”

 

Lavellan arranged him into a more pleasing position. Still on his front but with his knees tucked underneath him, thighs as far apart as they would go. The perfect view of his body, hole, cock, and balls on display. If he only liked women as he claimed, he was bound to be tight. Lavellan ran his fingertip over his hole without penetrating it. Carver jolted as if he'd been hit with an electricity spell.

 

“Have you really never been with a man?”

 

“Shut up.” Carver's voice was strangled despite the front he was putting up. “If you're going to do it, just do it, and _shut up_.” He changed his mind very quickly when Lavellan shoved two of his fingers into him. Changed his tune too. “Don't. _Don't_. Stop. _No. Maker, no_..” The last no was when Lavellan found his prostate and made him jolt again as his cock grew. Lavellan grasped his erection as he continued to toy with his prostate. Carver cringed, hiding his face in his own shoulder, his breath hitching underneath it. He was as tight as Lavellan had hoped, clamping down on his fingers, barely loosening at all with Lavellan's efforts. Lavellan doubted he was very experienced with women either. He was fairly sure he could bring him off in a few more strokes. But that would be a waste of time.

 

“Why?” he asked, when Lavellan yanked his fingers free.

 

“Why?” Lavellan repeated.

 

“We helped you. We fucking healed you. Why are...?” The question seemed to shame him as much as anything else. “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

“Because I have to save the world.”

 

Lavellan unlaced his breeches. It had been far too long, and a delicious shudder went through him at the anticipated pleasure. He dug his fingers into Carver's buttocks, spreading them, and thrust inside. The anticipation was nothing compared to the real thing. Carver _screamed_. And he hadn't made a sound when the shade took a chunk out of him. His body clenched around Lavellan's cock, at first trying to push back against the intrusion, then simply just because he was so tight. Definitely inexperienced. He was still half-hard when Lavellan squeezed his cock.

 

“Kill you...” he whispered, his massive body pinched to the ground, head still tucked into his shoulder. Lavellan bit a mark into the back of his neck. He made a low sound of utter despair.

 

“Quiet, _templar_.” It had indeed been too far long. A few more thrusts and he was spurting inside Carver. It made him scream a fresh scream. A shame that he hadn't been able to enjoy that first time tightness for longer but even Lavellan had physical limitations. He idly shoved the come leaking out of Carver's hole back inside him with three fingers. Judging by Fenris' previous trips, Lavellan had a couple of hours yet before he returned. Plenty of time to use Carver a couple more times before he set off himself. He toyed with the idea of taking Carver with him, to service him on the road, but it wasn't practical. Carver didn't know his place. Would no doubt try to escape or to harm Lavellan at every opportunity.

 

Lavellan worked himself back into hardness watching Carver shudder, buttocks clenching as he tried to pinch them shut. His massive size and his status as both a templar and Hawke's brother had probably altered his worldview somewhat, made him unaware that something like this could ever happen to him. An oddly appealing naivete like when he'd asked _why are you doing this to me_? Lavellan turned him onto his back. He wanted to see his face when he rutted him this time. He was as handsome as his brother in his own way, especially now, his pupils pinpoints, blood on the corner of his mouth where he must have bitten his lip.

 

He flashed his teeth when Lavellan entered him again and squeezed his eyes shut. Lavellan fisted both hands in his hair, using it as leverage to buck into him, slamming his hips against Carver's arse. He watched every wince, every brief flicker of his eyelids, the way he tried to glare once then lifted his gaze to the ceiling until it turned blank. _Lovely_. This time, Lavellan lasted longer. And Carver made a low, keening sound when he eventually came.

 

With the help of a restoration potion, Lavellan managed to get hard again. This time, he came across Carver's face and chest, and dragged the come down the muscles of his abdomen, marking that beautiful body inside and out. Another potion and he couldn't resist burying himself in Carver one last time.

 

The cave flared with blue-white light and an animal noise of pure rage blared. Then Lavellan was choking, dragged out of and away from Carver. At first, Lavellan thought that the shades had returned, then he realised it was Fenris, back earlier than he expected. He could _feel_ something inside his chest cavity, the way he'd been able to feel the infection in his lungs. Fenris' fist. The edges of his vision dimmed. The pain was like nothing else. Sticks under the nailbed. A stiletto driven deep into the ear canal. A red hot poker shoved deep into the eye socket. Where were those comparisons coming from? He'd never felt any of those things.

 

“You can't!”

 

That was Cole's voice. Fenris pulled his fist free of Lavellan's chest. Lavellan expected to see it closed around his heart, but he was intact. He collapsed, gasping, trying to draw air back into his lungs. The ache there must mean something serious. Must mean he was dying, even though Fenris was empty-handed.

 

“He needs to survive,” Cole said. “He needs to die but he needs to survive more.”

 

Fenris dismissed Cole as a threat almost immediately and turned his attention back to Lavellan. His brands lit up. Cole was somehow faster than the blue streak Fenris became because he materialised in front of him and whispered: “Remember.”

 

Fenris' markings dulled. He collapsed where he stood. Asleep? He didn't look dead or injured. Cole caught him and lowered him gently to the ground. Lavellan tried to bolt, still spluttering from whatever Fenris had done to his lungs. He got a couple of steps before Cole was in front of him. Then Lavellan was back on the ground. Cole had slashed his dagger too quickly for Lavellan to even parse it was happening, the first he knew of it the pain in his gut. Cole had practically eviscerated him. Forced him to squirm on the ground pinching his stomach back together.

 

Cole didn't give him a second glance. He kneeled beside Carver. “I was too late.” Carver shrank away from him as he untied him. “You think this means you're not strong but it doesn't. You think it makes you less but he can't take away the parts of you that matter.”

 

Whatever Carver said in return, Lavellan didn't hear it. Too busy concentrating on keeping his guts inside his body. If only he'd learned at least one healing spell like his Keeper kept encouraging him to. He hadn't had any natural ability for that school of magic. Had thought it pointless when there were always healers on hand.

 

Cole loomed over him. “Remember.”

 

Lavellan remembered... Dorian's kohl smeared down his cheeks. He'd stopped screaming long ago but he had an endless supply of tears. He was lovely even when his face contorted in agony, beautiful body now streaked with drying come, dark skin covered with shades of darker bruises where the ropes had cut into him or Lavellan had gripped too hard. He never seemed to run out of pain either, flinching still at every thrust.

 

“Remember.”

 

Lavellan remembered... The cloying smell of burning skin filling his nose. Bull wasn't the unstoppable force he thought himself to be. Every concealed hiss and whimper showed the bluster before now for what it was. Lavellan worked his hand inside him up to the wrist, then up to the elbow, and though something had ruptured and the way was tacky with blood he was sure he could get up to his shoulder.

 

“Remember.”

 

Lavellan remembered... The tears never stopped. Lavellan would be busy enjoying another part of Cole's body, his arse or throat, and he'd glance at Cole's face and see them. He cried silently but constantly. Lavellan slapped him hard across the cheek. “Stop crying.” Cole only looked at him, dead-eyed, tears streaking down his cheeks and pooling under his chin. “Stop.” Another slap. “I told you to stop it.”

 

But he never did.

 

“Remember.”

 

Lavellan remembered... an explosion that rattled his teeth. Waking up in a bed in Haven... Arguing with the Keeper about going to the conclave. Just let the damn shems kill each other... Thalin stiffened every time Lavellan saw him in camp...The freckled shem's drunken struggles. “Get off me, knife-ear.”... The camp's mouser always too fast to get caught by a kick... The Keeper correcting his grip on his stave... Startling both himself and a herd of halla with his first spell...

 

“Forget.”

 

Lavellan remembered... nothing.

 

***

 

The first Dorian knew of the rift closing was the change in the light. The green pall it had cast over everything disappeared. The next was the cheers sounding from the courtyard. Then the talk. Absolutely everyone was talking and no one was bothering to be quiet, so he shortly knew that Lavellan was also back.

 

He couldn't bring himself to care about any of it. Bull remained unconscious.

 

Apparently Cole was back too. He appeared in the middle of the room.

 

“Not now, Cole.” The last thing Dorian needed was to have his own hurt echoed back at him.

 

Cole didn't talk. He strode over to Dorian with grace and purpose he'd never had outside of battle. He was emitting a faint gold light, the gaudiness of which Dorian would quite appreciate in other circumstances. Cole tossed something in his lap. With a queasy flip of his stomach, Dorian realised it was Bull's missing horn.

 

“Lavellan kept it,” Cole said.

 

It was grotesque. Dorian's first instinct was to fling it away. He felt rather like a cat owner receiving the gift of a decapitated mouse. But perhaps Bull would want it. Perhaps the healers could reattach it somehow. That Lavellan had kept it didn't surprise him at all.

 

“I put the Iron Bull in a better place,” Cole said. “Should I bring him back?”

 

“ _Should_ you?” The healers' bafflement made sense. Cole obviously had some means of manipulating the mind, how else would he be able to read them so easily? If Bull's state was his doing... Cole's mere existence denied everything they knew of magic. No wonder they hadn't been able to puzzle it out. Dorian supposed he should be angry. But recent events... Dorian had once seen a clumsy patron knock down an entire shelf full of twisted bottles of layered coloured sands, each slumping and smashing into each other, shattering and showering the place in bright dust. He felt rather like those bottles. “You're asking if I'd like you to wake Bull up?”

 

“No. I asked you if I should.”

 

Should? It appeared a fundamentally stupid question at first. Of course he should. What would be the point of all this otherwise? And they'd have wasted the healers' time completely. But... he looked down at the horn. It looked like it had been sawn off, jagged at the ends. And Dorian had often indulged Bull by scratching his horns, laughing at the way it turned him into an absurdly large cat, butting into his hands. So they had some sensation in them.

 

Would he want to wake?

 

“Yes.” He would want to, and even if he didn't, that wasn't a choice he could or should make for Bull. “We can't let Lavellan have killed us, Cole. We can't give him that as well.”

 

Cole placed his palm on Bull's head and whispered, “Remember.” He was gone before the last syllable had faded.

 

And Bull woke. Not a violent, thrashing surge to life as Dorian had expected, but with three slow blinks. “Did I have coco?” Bull said.

 

Dorian had also seen, in the little curio shop on the coast, a thankless assistant siphoning the coloured sand back into brand new bottles. He thought he'd cried himself out days ago but apparently he had floods more in reserve. “I'll have some sent up from the kitchens, you bloody idiot.”

 

***

 

The hollow thing wearing Lavellan's face that could barely remember not to shit its trousers inspired pity rather than anger. Which left Dorian somewhat rudderless. Full of rage with no good target. Carver and Bull were sparring at in the yard, which he presumed was an urge borne of the same thing. Watching Bull knock Carver on his arse tempered some of the livid mess inside of him. Bull was missing a horn and favouring his right side but he was fit and strong and _alive_. Gloriously awake and alive.

 

Carver, for his part, gave as good as he got. But there was an increasing franticness to each swing of the wooden training sword. One that wasn't there in Bull's. An urge Dorian recognised. That he had sometimes indulged when he was routing the demons attempting to lay siege to Skyhold. An urge that had him beating them with his staff until there was only mush under it then no staff at all and just his fists. Once he'd gotten so carried away that he hadn't noticed the fight was over until a soldier coughed, and found Cullen's forces all staring at him. At first, it had terrified him. Made him wonder if the violence Lavellan had inflicted on him had infected him somehow.

 

But all the lieutenant did was clap him on the shoulder and give it a squeeze. A simple gesture of sympathy that, humiliatingly, made him tear up.

 

It might be a needed catharsis but he didn't appreciate the thought of Bull being the target for it. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked.

 

“You?” Carver said, eyeing the training staff he'd selected – nothing more fancy than a long wooden stick.

 

“Afraid to spar with a mage?”

 

Bull chuckled and leaned down to kiss the top of Dorian's forehead. Dorian curled his fingers in his for a moment before letting him go. They were still negotiating the touching thing, starting with small but frequent gestures, always affectionate, trying to rub away the tarnish Lavellan had left on each of their bodies. Waiting until they were in private seemed like an unnecessary hurdle to jump over. It was early days yet but he didn't flinch and Bull stooped to plant another kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Go easy on him, kadan.”

 

Dorian fixed his moustache where Bull's kiss had mussed it. “As if I would ever give it less than my all.”

 

Dorian wasn't sure what to make of Carver. Cole had brought him back when he dragged Lavellan in. Dorian had only glimpsed him briefly before Fenris had herded him into the infirmary. Then he'd headed for the baths. An all-too-familiar circuit. If that hadn't been telling enough, every other time Dorian had clapped eyes on him, he'd been sparring. It didn't matter what time of the day or night it was, he'd be there with the same wooden sword he held now, fighting Cassandra, Cullen, unnamed soldiers, or the training dummies when no living thing presented itself.

 

Carver poked his sword at him. Or, well, he might as well have for such a clearly telegraphed and easily dodged strike. Dorian dodged the next insult of a blow to his staff hand. “The last time I saw your elf friend he was bellowing something about demons.” Fenris had not, apparently, been a fan of the methods Cole used to subdue him.

 

“He does that.” Carver gave a heart-hearted jab for Dorian's side. “And he's not my friend.”

 

“Oh? You were travelling together.” And Fenris had stood guard at the infirmary door with his giant sword just daring anyone to try and eavesdrop.

 

“He's my brother's boyfriend.”

 

It was still odd for Dorian to hear such relationships described openly for all he'd kissed Bull a few moments ago. He parried another pathetic attempt for his side. Despite training all day in moderate – at least moderate for the South – heat, Carver still wore a long-sleeved shirt soaked through at the chest and armpits. Dorian was also covered from collar to wrist. Being admired didn't have quite the shine it once did.

 

He twirled his staff, brought it up under his arm and above his head in a wide arc, and down to where, had it been his actual bladed staff, it would have pierced Carver's neck. Dorian's muscles were not just for enjoyment of others, yet Carver was treating him like something fragile. He didn't quite manage to dodge the blow and deflected it to his shoulder instead. He finally took a real stab at Dorian, which caught on his summoned barrier.

 

“I thought we were sparring,” Carver said, taking a couple of steps back to reassess.

 

“A real opponent won't refrain from using their magic at your convenience.”

 

“A real opponent would get silenced.”

 

“A fair point.” And a potentially fascinating one. He hadn't had the opportunity to study the Southern templar's abilities yet. Cullen was, understandably, cagey about them and he was the only templar Dorian knew personally. Perhaps he'd ask Carver more at a less fraught time. He dispelled his barrier.

 

While magic worked especially well for demons, a blow from a large heavy stick was fatal to almost everything, so Dorian had learned to use it as such should the need arise. Carver might be more physically imposing but in battle, it often came down to skill over size. For a while, there was only the clash of their training weapons, each of them lunging and dodging as required. Until Carver got in a lucky jab to the knee that sent Dorian to the ground.

 

Carver extended his hand to help Dorian up. He took it and, when he was hauled close enough for his low voice to be hear, said: “Am I right in thinking you endured Lavellan's attentions?”

 

Wild-eyed, Carver whipped his head from side to side. But Dorian had been subtle and there were few people in the courtyard to begin with.

 

“Nothing happened,” he said.

 

It was such a blatantly poor lie that Dorian didn't acknowledge it. “You aren't the only one.”

 

“Oh. Maker's balls. Of course. He was your leader.”

 

“Officially, he still is.” Officially, Lavellan had suffered a head injury. Last he'd heard the advisers were unenthusiastically discussing plans to make Lavellan at least functional.

 

“And I thought having to put up with my brother's snoring for a year was bad.”

 

Dorian laughed. Not because the joke was particularly funny but because it was a relief to find Carver capable of making it. Perhaps there was hope for them yet. “It began with Cole, who I gather you've met.”

 

“I... wasn't sure whether he was real or not.”

 

In his darker moments of introspection, Dorian wasn't sure either. Cole had become a ghost again. Only appearing in the whispered tales of the serving staff. “He exists.” That was about as much as Dorian could say for sure. “Bull barely survived Lavellan's attentions. And I...” It was still hard to admit. “I didn't suspect him capable of quite this much until it was far too late. So, you needn't be alone in this.”

 

In his periphery, he could see Fenris heading over with a training sword. What a grand way to prove his point.

 

“I should have been able to fight him off.” It was a common refrain. One that had bounced around in Dorian's own head for a while until he realised the uselessness of it.

 

“More than the Iron Bull? More than any of us? This didn't happen through any failing of ours, Carver.”

 

***

 

It took days of careful tracking but Bull finally pinned Cole down. He cut him off on the battlements. The ones he'd tried to throw himself off. He was sitting there, dangling his legs off them. Bull didn't think he'd try it again but he moved to grabbing distance just in case.

 

“The skulking's kinda freaking everyone out.” Well, partly the skulking. Partly what he'd did to Lavellan. Bull had been ready to _kill_ that bastard for what he'd done to Dorian. But the drooling and the glassy, unaware eyes had stopped him. There was nothing left to kill. Probably a lot of the concern about Cole's whereabouts stemmed from a fear that he'd sneak up behind them. “That's gotta stop.”

 

Cole rocked back and forth on the edge, tapping his heels against the wall. “The little wolf watches the little brother and wonders why he couldn't save him. I can't help.”

 

It would really make this easier if Cole would knock that glowing shit off. “Let us help you for once, kid.”

 

“I dream now.”

 

Was that an answer? Was it a good thing or a bad thing? Maybe he should get Solas for this. “Of what?”

 

“Hands. Fingers. Teeth.” Cole peeked out from under his hat, looked through Bull, and dipped his head back down to cover his eyes with the brim again. “Cocks.” Plucking the phrasing from Bull's head maybe? That didn't sound like Cole. “Sometimes I ask Lavellan why but he doesn't know because I took the knowing from him.”

 

“There doesn't have to be a reason.” Children screaming in Seheron. Pits of bodies. Fire everywhere. “Sometimes shit just happens.”

 

“I still see the cracks but I don't know whether I want to fill them or open them wide,” Cole said, making Bull wonder if they were having the same conversation. “I brought your horn back, the Iron Bull.”

 

“Yeah, I saw... thanks.”

 

“He kept it. In his pack. He liked to look at it.”

 

Bull rubbed the stump. They could have glued it back on but it still wouldn't have been part of him. Sometimes he wanted to take one of Lavellan's ears despite himself, never mind he couldn't remember any of the shit he'd done to deserve it.

 

“It was the only part of anyone I could give back.”

 

That cooled Bull back off. “It doesn't work like that, kid.”

 

“I know.”

 

Bull crammed himself onto the battlements next to Cole. “So... the glowing stuff. You doing that on purpose?”

 

“It's going back to what I always was or becoming something else. I don't know. I want to be compassion but cruelty would be easier.”

 

“Solas seemed to think you'd gotten more human.” And he'd been _pissed_ about it. “If you can choose it once, you can choose it again.”

 

“I don't want to hurt. I don't want to be hurt.”

 

“Sounds plenty human to me.”

 

***

 

If there was one good thing about the end of the world, it was that it had stopped Dorian dwelling on the past. The inquisition didn't fall apart without Lavellan. Instead, it rallied, united in its disgust for the things he'd done. They packed decades worth of battles into mere weeks. Stopping Corpypheus's forces at the Well of Sorrows, gathering their strength and allies for the final assault. Carver and Fenris stayed to assist on the understanding that Josephine would get them to the Anderfels by the fastest means possible when it was over. When the inquisition absolutely had to, they dragged Lavellan along to point his hand at any rift that needed closing. Someone – usually Cassandra – would guard him at all times, just to ensure they didn't lose the one worthwhile thing about him.

 

“I kept the parts we needed,” Cole had said. It was unsettling, the sick satisfaction Dorian felt when he watched Lavellan having to be spoon-fed like a child. Or coaxed into battle, whimpering at the carnage going on around him. But not as unsettling as the knowledge that Cole had made an active choice to take not just his memories but his basic ability to function.

 

***

 

It was mad that they'd survived. Utterly preposterous. Dorian wasn't quite sure that they weren't still trapped in the Fade and everything that had happened since was a delusion. He tried to assure himself that it had indeed happened. That he really had just seen Lavellan use his mark to wipe Corypheus from existence. That he really was now in Skyhold, sitting in Josephine's quiet office with Bull and Cole, while the celebrations went on below them. It had been an entire age since Dorian had last sat. The chair by the fire was absurdly comfortable, even if he was sharing it with Bull. Cole sat on the edge of Josephine's desk. He'd never quite gotten the hang of furniture.

 

“Corypheus tried to bind you,” Dorian said. He was sure that had happened among the chaos. Corypheus had tried to use Cole against them.

 

Cole lifted his head. It was good to see. He'd spent too often hiding underneath his hat these past few days, when he wasn't hiding everything else as well. “No one will ever bind me again.”

 

The others were joining in the celebrations. All but Solas, who'd disappeared some time before they returned to Skyhold.

 

Cole only glowed occasionally now, and this was one of those occasions. The question of whether they should be alarmed by what Cole had become had popped up a lot recently. Dorian was of the opinion that, no, they shouldn't. Cole apparently had the ability to ravage minds, but with Bull and Fenris, he'd chosen to lull them with happy memories. What happened had changed all of them. It was simply that Cole was the only one able to physically manifest it.

 

“You're doing that thing again, kid,” Bull said.

 

“I need to.”

 

Josephine coughed politely to announce her presence and stepped into the room. “Would you join us in the cells?” They followed her down into Skyhold's prison, where Lavellan was shackled with Cullen standing guard. “We weren't sure how to proceed.”

 

Carver was there too. He had his arms crossed, watching Lavellan with a sour look. Lavellan blinked up at them. Total incomprehension on his face.

 

“There doesn't seem much point in sentencing him now,” Dorian said. What would be the point in sentencing a man for crimes he didn't remember and could no longer commit? If it hadn't been Lavellan he might have pitied him. The shackles were huge, heavy, and bolted to the wall, and he was fairly sure it was magebane that had leaked from the corner of his mouth and dried there.

 

“This is why I needed to,” Cole said. He gripped the sides of Lavellan's head. “Remember.”

 

The change was instant. Lavellan turned from placid simpleton to raging, thrashing menace.

 

“What did you do to me?” he screamed.

 

Cole drew his daggers and pointed them both at Lavellan's temples, which stopped the thrashing. Cullen took Josephine's arm and led her away. Apparently it was up to his victims to decide Lavellan's fate.

 

“Kill him,” Carver said. “The world won't lose anything.”

 

Decapitate him. In a highly public execution, for preference. That had some appeal.

 

“I seem to remember you threatening as much before,” Lavellan said. “And here I am.”

 

Carver ignored this. “How do we decide who gets the honours, though? Draw straws?”

 

“It's too quick,” Bull said. “Cut his tongue out. Sew his mouth shut. I can get a collar and a control rod.”

 

“Then someone would have the misfortune of having to wield it,” Dorian said. “I agree with Carver. Execute him. It's too clean an end for what he did, but there'd be no coming back from it.”

 

“No,” Carver said. “You're right. It's too clean. I say we chop off his cock and balls.”

 

Lavellan paled. Ah, now they were getting somewhere. But he rallied. “I'd still have fists.”

 

That made Bull wince and Dorian wonder if he'd ever be able to torture Lavellan enough to satisfy himself. Cutting out his tongue was starting to sound like an excellent idea. Perhaps they could chop off bits until something killed him. A compromise.

 

“What do you think, Cole?”

 

“A cage in Val Royeaux.” Cole's glow intensified for a moment, dazzling Dorian. He saw spots in front of his eyes even when Cole had dimmed. “And all the world knows what he is. Josephine sends a letter to Clan Lavellan and his Keeper aches with shame. The Empress thanks him for her life but sneers at him. The Chantry knows he's an imposter. And we do take his tongue but not his eyes or mind so he has to listen and see.”

 

Apparently everyone had brought a knife but Dorian. But Dorian didn't need one, a tongue could be just as easily removed by magic.

 

“So, you suggested drawing straws?” Dorian said, and Lavellan began to thrash again.

 

**End**


End file.
